When A God Bleeds Poem by Satish Verma
When A God Bleeds
Cause of things―
finding in myself in solitary
manner, reaping
the harvest of failures.
The ghost of a town
roils under the protests.
Nobody knows the ―
length of suffering.
Me and my god―
we are one. Nobody else
was entitled to live.
The half-burnt bodies,
making a crowd at the bank
of a holy river. At least they
were not shot in the head.
Reasons were flawless.
Fallacy was truth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/27/2024 10:24:16 PM # 1.0.0.1119
The egg breaks. Delicate as it was, it was only a vessel for life. Having waited for rain its dry, arid landscape collapsed under the weight of dust. Under the rust that flaked from the underside of distant clouds, like scabs from a wound that never wholly heals.