It rained last night,
dampness giving a tumultuous pleasure
the day before, town was burning.
Weeping ashoka laden with smudges,
and sky was crimson red,
You could not avoid this heat and dust,
love and hate; sharing the cooling winds.

The patterns are changing,
what to redeem, what not.
Trampled by death everywhere,
frightened words go for a dignified fall.
We are trading our bruises for moorings.
A happy notebook is blasted,
and motif goes into exile.

World moves in circle
it will touch you again
A strange divinity puts you in oblivion.
The spirit walks some steps with you,
and then disappears.
My grass burns in front of me.
This had been a festival of slaughtered dreams.

Satish Verma