SHIFTING FLOORS

A hand without fingers 
draws a self-portrait. 
Faceless, only eyes glaring 
like bucketfull of burning coals. 

Was it not enough to call ‘wolf’. 
The pain scorches the compound 
where the blood of innocent flowed 
because somebody was burning woods. 

The shifting continues in the ocean 
of grief, but the kelp 
remains there, connot be eased out. 
Even the violence makes the water blue. 

You were inhailing the white 
gowned death everyday. A 
moonlit landscape mourns 
for the living on earth.

Satish Verma