Poetry

It spurs the hope
in absent voice for a deaf ear.
You will wash the ancestor’s prism
for a natural death of a fault.

Through me I skim the frozen
lake of tears.

Maybe I will watch the tree
for some sanity to produce
the blossoms -

in the starved faith of a
wanderer who will not speak
for himself.

All life he was trying to explain
without words,
the enormous efforts he was
putting to lay down his hands
on truth.

Satish Verma