FUTURE SIGNS

arriving to shun that wolf
on your blood’s trail,
you comb through rubble,
tormented:

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glimpse of fear,
fixated at otherness of yellow sin,
threatened, panic white,
suicide note;
now you have come out from your tremors
stillborn, sine die

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with umbilical cord around your neck,
squeezing,
choking,
after shocks settling on interrogator:
I am running aground in deep waters

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and your body becomes a boat
of terror, disbelief, later a collaboration
with seeds and birds, this smelt side
of truths, I regret my art

Satish Verma