He was hiding it, knew its contents
but refusing to reveal it. The denial was
within and deception complete. Truth never
had a chance.
I could not play the game.
Heart fluttered like a pigeon,
eel serum was not working. I did't want to yield.
Not, again my frightened mind said.
Symbol of pain had become an art. I was
surprised at the distortion of sex
and beauty. Sun was running furtively. His limbs
becoming long sticks at unmanned crossing.
Hate versus hate was not appealing, something
else was needed, to read the writing
on wall. Cult was gaining speed. Heat was rising.
Enough, I said: perforated drum was bleeding.
Easy owlish tricks, his cuticle ruptured,
his body was becoming a fierce belief for slaves.
Signatures appearing on trees, lakes and fields
reversing the earth's movement in praise of darkness.
SATISH VERMA
