Fear grips a family of words.
You are going to where you do not want
to go.
I remain worried about the unknown.

The inevitable was flowering
on dead palms.
Would you exhume the past to find out,
what the divinity has buried
along the panicles of croci?

I do not understand this war
between glaciers and guns.
Can we drink together the elixir
of death dripping from the snow peaks?
Sun was screaming from the unblooming trees.

Submitted by Satish Verma.

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