Surge of rage in domes of violence
skins the history, becomes a frozen embryo
of genetic markers, shimmers in society,
race and native shirts.

Enters into the creation of a saga
accomplished by advancing poppies;
there was no connection to ancestors.

Brutalizing golden dawn
leaves a bitter taste.
They were fighting with broken swords.

Virgin flesh becomes moon face,
bloats for a fatal jump,
on to the widow’s peak
of a dancing star at sun-set point.

The innocence cleaves the night
to implant the bride’s lips.
I am lost in a sheared landscape
there is no singing tree.

Satish Verma