Gyrations

I am lifting
your blood-soaked shirt
giving the latitude to planet
which broke the law.

The elite
wants to know, why you were
still here, when steam was rising
in golden night?

An extended
grief overtakes the wind
in the flute. You become a free man
walking naked.

The gyres
were calibrating the magi.
An empty niche waits for a Buddha
to take the re-birth.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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