Satish Verma (5-6-1935)

After the organic death
of soaked breast,
I put up tiny islands of eyes
in spooked water.

The dead were coming back
to live on the terrace
amidst the roses
of roof-garden.

I talk to flowers to end
the war. The light was waiting
behind the hills and
birds were ready to sail.

Were you afraid of mother
earth or roaring sky?
The corpses are standing in row
to receive the mighty wrath.