Poetry

Your insistence to become
something, to overstay existence
was not fair.

On a row of white shrouds –
holding innocent beings,
death was walking barefoot, crying.

Between farewell and stupidity,
staccato, shooting questions to life.
What was the need for this achievement?

Fear was turning you against me,
to abandon the peace. Truth cannot be repeated
again and again. It becomes a lie.

No body knows how to bury
the deception. It is still dark.
Who was seeking the light?


Satish Verma