The Troubled Faith
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
poem by Satish Verma
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