The crisis,
a distinctive nothing,
swaps the dignity with blood.
The world hogs around
your palatial words.
The throb drips from your temples.
Hate or love it,
the barren prelude looms large.
I am going for a drift.

It comes back again
and again the debris of dream
of circling wolves.
The crisp moon outlines the contours of hills.
I fight with a stiff translation
of a truth. Deep rituals will always hound.
I escape from my body,
unfreeze my ego.

The stars did not help.
The space widened between doors.
Illusions outlined the
shadows of dead years.
Must we praise the seeping
poision in our bones?
No God had been spared,
the spring was mauled
by prowling summer.

Satish Verma