Poetry

Life may mean anything to you, but
I refuse, to become a utility.
Come, let us face the death of time.

We were whisked away,
had taken a wrong turn,
and when battle lines were drawn,
the guns were not ready.

Dirty mirrors always complained of a bad weather.
Today I will go for a long journey,
to get the gifts of peacocks from green trees.
I want to listen to their grievances whole night.

Humanity stinks when infected hands
handle the peace. I splash the truth
on your face,
to see the sun clearly.


Satish Verma