Poetry

That fake encounter
takes place everyday amidst peels of darkness
and terror strikes you when you were
looking for the healing torch.

Clutching the old rags of history
I sit on the pyramid of bones:
somewhere the sanity puts up a metaphore
in the abyss of ashes.

I travel with untouchables to unburden
the past; between us we throw the questions
to escape from the sizzling heat of truth,
lifting the lids of time.

Cause will suffer, the answers linger
pure as glittering lies. The purple
guilt smells of a dying flute.


Satish Verma