Dirty Homes

by Satish Verma   Mar 8, 2016


While going my way, searching an eternal flame
I confront an extraordinary trauma,
God does not live, but dies in me daily.

There was green pain in this condemned strangeness
as the young world moves on
dancing with joy.
It was not a coincidence
that intellectual anesthesia
was not able to bring good sleep.

So much passes by your city
existential traffic, soaring above arguments,
but a chilled, far away voice
defends the crumbling palace of syntax.

The masks are crying from the split walls
languishing in the hopeless garden.
Wherever you go, the windows are closed
and the smoke rings
rising from the chimneys of dirty homes.

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Latest Comments

  • 9 years ago

    by J Nair

    The opening verse is brilliant,

    While going my way, searching an eternal flame
    I confront an extraordinary trauma,
    God does not live, but dies in me daily.

    When witnessing tragedies and hopelessness in the lives of so many, each day is a struggle to keep the faith and god alive within. with each death and each story of destruction that we are exposed to, it feels like yet once again gods glory meets the dust... so it is an on going struggle of keeping god from dying within us.

    Pain and melancholy surrounds this poem,
    very well expressed and summed up....with these lines

    The masks are crying from the split walls
    languishing in the hopeless garden.
    Wherever you go, the windows are closed
    and the smoke rings
    rising from the chimneys of dirty homes

    Thank you for sharing this one Mr. Verma.

    Jay

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