Poetry

The wind writes a name on the clouds
and sun wipes out the letters.
This game continues daily.
coming into life after every death.

Exhausted I want to believe
and make up my mind to go
for a new birth.

The resentment has accumulated
all the life
against the futility of winning a race.
In the end you reach no where.

A void impossible to fill.
The years monitored, lay waste
something to die.


Satish Verma