Nestlings Poem by Satish Verma

Coming face to face with hemlock
you are not able to rain in the animal
and start climbing the temperamental tree.

Fathered by innocence of violence
on the name of war, when were you
going to kill? Your own progency?

Slice by slice I am collecting the
wrath of tinderbox, dry winds
and volcano for the sake of peace.

And I hear the night’s arrival
without moon, without stars.
The black needles will stitch the wounds of sun.