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