Satish Verma (5-6-1935)
Seven minutes of terror,
and fourth generation of missiles.
Can they go together?
And road stops here?
An honour killing will
ensue? Do you think so?
Ethnic hate runs deep in
seeking revenge by remote sensing.
I miss my ego. The poet’s
pride; oscillating between
water and beach. There was no
boat in sight.
Sitting on a rock. I visualize
the firebrand west. Moon was rising.
There was no rhyming in verse or
cascading fall. Any one can climb-
the tree and start throwing down
the ripe mangoes. Was it a harvesting
time of severing the cords.
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