Poetry

Till the end story
hope was not visible
to others.

Lie neutral truth
and road side innocence
died under the sun.

End in view was shifting
from error to error.
Statements squeezed between departures.

Steaming cup of patience
dazzled the penniless.
I was sick of hypocrisy.

At the end of my forest
dawn of my child
was peeling a rainbow.

Pedlars of worn out boats
were standing at the shores.
Two little feet were crossing the sea.