Vision was searching an eye,
when you were pelting stones
on virgin roses.

It was a season of
undertaking fast on streets
to change the afternoon of people’s war.

This verdict had antique fangs
of cracked jaws. The sex seekers
were finding the pollen dust on thighs.

A hiss becomes a snake
on trembling lips, ready
to stun eyelashes, turning on a god.

Cow dung will clean the pollution
of faithful minds for graceful entry
into the charities of inferno.

Satish Verma