Satish Verma

June 5, 1935
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A Banquet Table

Performing to a script
you divide me like a fish.
From dirt a face rises.

One flew over the sea
to count the red islands
where the rocks hanged the dry skulls.

Why did you kill the panthers
by feeding them the toxic menu?
Sugar was never my cup.

It was not the question
of bread and butter:
we were talking of clean air.

The ashes will rule now.
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