Poetry

A city prepares to die.
What is the real time now
for blemishing the skin of a man?

In your violet eyes
I will find a moon
for an encounter.

An alien wall comes up
between us.We cannot shed
the veils of clouds.

I hate brother, hate the
ambassadors of death
in the voluptuousness of greed.

Remember,
O my shadow,
dying was a great art.

Satish Verma