Season’s Change

When the debate between
temple versus state was heating up,
death was passing through a green field.

A nervous embrace
of solatium was unstable.
A heap of flip-flops could not

hold steady, little
poems fluttering in the heart.
Was it the will of God?

The stampede was the anathema
of hunger, the curse of a
whore was working.

Instead of food and alms,
a mass burial makes
me insane.

Was it possible that spring
was far behind? When brassica
blooms, will you forget? Is it not true?

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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