Poetry

From the unread book
I look back at three generations, with
whom I was fighting
for a staircase, which did not
take me anywhere.

It was an edge over the wisdom
for footfalls in space
for an apology for an unknown warrior
waiting of a midnight sun
for a foretaste of time.

I do not want you to come
as a pawnbroker,
I have nothing to offer for exchange.
From my grandfather I got his shoes,
my father gave me his eyes.

Still I am groping in dark
to justify the everlasting sky
full of needles.


Satish Verma