Trigger Point Poem by Satish Verma
Trigger Point
A missile in the home,
what they have done?
You are on flames.
A red smoke rises
from bottomless hole.
Memory slumps.
A glow in pain washed
cells, calls the mirror.
Instead, grave diggers arrive.
This was the manufactured truth
of the eternal kiss
of death. I stretch my arms
to feel the terror.
The walls start crying.
There was no roof.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/27/2026 10:52:48 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
The last two lines bring the terror alive in a mysterious way.