DON?T GIVE ME ANY HAND

From scorn to scorn

from uproar to commotion

a macabre drama is being played.

I am the stage, I am the audience.

 

Lines are not straight, words burn

like fever on the choppy sea of mediterranian

the tongue bites like wasp,

I squirm between the leaves of poems.

 

Had not bargained the endeavour

for small deathly pricks.

My lamp is giving smoke,

but heat is intense.

 

Don’t give me any hand.

I am lame, I am hurt.

I want to watch my wound go deep

search for the questions, search for the answer.

 

Why did it happen ?

The animals are licking the ash.

My river may now break the bank,

I am going to overflow.

 

 

SATISH VERMA