Night was not worth selling the womb. Biological warheads were sufficient to take on the gender eugenesis. People were busy again, in worshipping the archaic weapons.
What is holding them together? The fear of extinction? Or the celiac trauma depriving them of all the healthy nutrients. The warrior is dead, only his long nose is still smelling the foul odors of hate and strife.
The beetles are coming and the caterpillars, swarming over the beds. Where will you sleep now? And beyond was the life wasted, and darkness. On mantel are standing the empty frames of future, trying to hold the lava, back and forth.
Satish Verma is ferociously original. You feel resentment, outrage and violence, cannot pin it down but wonderfully spin your brain. Satish has the greatest sensibility which sweetly exploits the delicacies of human conflicts. You are taken aback. This is magic, profoundly soulful. In a lone, long journey Satish Verma is still discovering himself. Beaten, betrayed, felled, he comes back with fierce velocity. His childhood was traumatized by India’s partition. Terror, violence and death were witnessed which built the morals of poet. Becoming defiantly recluse Satish Verma pursued his value based life on the path of truth. Teaching Botany for 35 years he was writing poetry, privately and solemnly and published twelve collections. Worked silently with social causes. His scions, doctors and engineers are living in USA. He chose to live back in his beloved country and resides in Ajmer (INDIA) with his spouse Kanta running the Charitable Holistic Institute of SEWA MANDIR FOUNDATION. He can also be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. 5-A ii, Mayoor Colony, Alwar Gate, Ajmer – 305007 INDIA Mobile +91 9829071468
Riding slowly among the misty clouds The endless curves of mighty hills But i wonder it’s not fascinating me anymore Why i curtailed my world in you? Deep down there lays beautiful valleys Defining life beyond explanation But my soul
Driving green fire out of melodies. It was not make-believe not mannerism but smell of autopsy. A pseudo-elegy starts at burial site. Frugality of dust first decides to go to god and then die. Race, religion, tribe and their foot-soldiers
Day of holding figure, To the day of touching their feet Not has changed Yesterday they taught us how to walk Today they taught us how to talk From the day of pampers To the day of manners From bringing