An empty indulgence, tortures the deep imagination
the immutable name of unuttered grief.
Gradually the fear of unknown, takes hold of the lungs, spleen.
We don’t put the solitude for soul-search.
I am hearing myself now.
The fake overtakes the acuity.
Death looks at the sacrilege from a distance.
The saffron clouds create the opacity in transparent green.
Once we were all colorless, full of dirt now;
storing our memories in empty hearts.
The vigil was over, rains scattered the seeds.
The hours and days were littered with bruised limbs of shaken faith.
Nobody held the banner.
The dark performance of believers was sheared off by sharp lights.