Poetry

Belief will lynch all the vistas,
one by one,
for art of living,
to break the silence of innocence.

I will scream, when hurts bruise
in temporal sleep,
for man’s hymns of wheeled corpses
wafting in eternal cliffs of truth –

being proud strings of a forgotten song
in the valley of death
chastening the majesty of scars.

I will pray for the brief funeral
of old age,
I shall not beg for mercy.


Satish Verma