Wrenching

by Satish Verma

The crisis starts boiling
about the invisible foes.
        The contraptions hope to recapture
        the moods.

Harsh, arrogant and ritualistic.
In the stark nudity of silence
         a wooden Buddha lies on the
         floor crying.

“I am not happy, I am not happy.
Why were you still a virgin?”
          White butterflies will not sit
          on jasmines to lose their script.

There was a black moon to chase
the fugitive. There will be no midnight
           sun. Between lips and cups
           the grey fox had lighted a lamp.

02-Jul-2013

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