A Dead Song

by Satish Verma

They were ready
to suck the crowd. The child was pushed
into lentil soup, boiling, to appease the rain god.

Shining masks, the celebration starts;
surging a myth, crown of hawthorn,
hallucinating dance.

The people lick their fingers,
feast for claws and incisers
I run for the cross, please wait.

Emptying tomorrow in the lifting
hands of blunt queen. The watercolor
was casting the vote.

A freedom descends on the wounded
legs, as they drag with nobility.
Thumb by thumb you clutch the tree.

08-Mar-2011

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