Scattered Thoughts Poem by Satish Verma

Coming to an end the
consecration. The land will
not give you any god.

Only the demons will come in your dreams.

If it were window, the
street will send the black
noises in your house.

I will not wait
for snow-melting.
The slum was going to be
sliced off.

Wet from the rainfall,
the grain cannot be milled
and you will not eat my sprouts.

I cannot sail now.
It must be very dark
and the glossary
very foul.