The Threshold

by Satish Verma

During the litany of questions,
I will talk to you
about the innocence
of a flowing river.

Here was your fault line.
You had washed your words in
the dirty stream.
Now, you were complaining about the winds.

I will not ask you
to kill the thrill of hurting
the defence. But
were you ready for a recount?

Black, as a burnt-out bread,
the time will leave the wounds open.
I will write a poem
you will start screaming.

01-Oct-2013

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