Mob Was Coming Poem by Satish Verma

The enormous evil pours
its darkness on streets.
Violence throws its tentacles.
Overpowering fear stalks
and we shrink inside.
Ancient wounds fester again.
Our pain knives the clitches and
suddenly we search for the roots.

When the centuries fail,
who will link the dates?
The spaces in mind
are thronged by promising tomorrows
of soft pornography.
The virus spreads far
and wide and calender bares the ignobles.

The mob was coming.
Windows have new paint.
We will collectively burn
the scriptures in the city.
The deep tunnels hide the debris
of our broken limbs and shredded belief.