SCULPTURING

It does not work;
the manipulation of the fast.
The genomic fugitive
nurtures a home of light, windswept pyre.

Under the prophet
a gloom unloosens the absolute.
Now as you weave
a pattern of lies, the page hits.

The book is thrown into
fire. The words swim, break the grief
of naked sun. There
is flooding of wombs. Who will conceive a god?

Between you and me,
a river flows. I become voiceless.
You cannot build a bridge.
The spinning curve outlines the shore.

Satish Verma