Mystery

by Satish Verma

The fumbling picks up.
The sixth sense
was failing.

A mother weeps
for the unborn child.
You were still ogling at the peaks.

Were you true to yourself
in the dark, when the
moon was away?

I had lost the burning
coals, after the
rains came.

The dark mine, where
they were shot, for
picking up the lightning.

18-Dec-2013

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