That vertical sink 
loaded with cargo 
fraught, 
with pools of blackened blood 
burned me. 


I never arrived 
at a moot prologue 
for the journey of dead. 

The sun turned away 
in a doubt 
under a smoked trance of helplessness. 

Perhaps it was true of a murder 
in serene weather 
when the astrologia was opposite. 

The charred landscape 
dithered about the lilies. 
Will they come back? 



Satish Verma