Making Gunpowder Poem by Satish Verma

You walk into a trap.
The self-search must start
after the accident in hearth.
The fire has failed―
to ignite the thruth.

No more questions would
come. The shrine will receive
all the answers.

The system wants to know
what went wrong to
identify the protégé of crisis?

You know mimosa. It behaves
like a sensitive person. Touch it and
its leaflets fold together like
greetings and bend down asking
to exit.

The violence erupts. A god has no say.