Collecting The Relics Poem by Satish Verma

Predicted to fall.
Man battling against his
demonic spirits.

A killer silence
becomes a knife. Slicing your thumb.

You want to invoke
the missing gods, sleeping
under the dams.

No one should bring
me to tears. I disapprove
the color of blood.

My bones are becoming
stronger, without flesh. I walk
without legs on the hills of fog.

Do not throw the
acid on moon. Hands
will do.

You cannot pass through
a ring of fire. Bonding fails.