Poetry

Civil war:
Again you are visiting
the childhood.A green pond.

Smoke filled eyes ask, what
was a home?

A black city of white hills.
You were climbing on dreams
to reach a baby moon.

And the night
was very long, like a bad name
you cannot spell.

The anthills, fireflies and
snakes. You are still lost
in cobwebbed age.

Pawned:
After books there were no other
tales.

Satish Verma