at cremation ground
the flames were creating
strange words
he stood still, in void, between unfenced tears
there was no need to question the answers,
kicking up the history, of crossing the bridge
over the river of annihilation
of self, making a gift of forked tongue
of cobra, spiteful, as an old virgin
it was over without thinking, scribbling
on the margin, his name in different inks
a young smell floats an funny rocks of
events and the fish swims in eyes of dead
foetus in womb, with unclenched fists
Satish Verm
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