And now the pain wants me to speak,
the words, but I wanted to listen
like winds and keep back the thoughts.

I refused to move from the scene.
God was bleeding
and his dolls were strewn around
on marble floor
broken, dismembered.

No tree was safe now.
The sky had cracked,
off the light. I cannot reach.

The dark thing shoves in,
from a precipice, I am falling,
falling!
The pomegranate blossoms?
Where are they?

I am not afraid of a terrorist.
I fear more of the shape
of the humanoid eyes
they are red, very red!

Satish Verma