Theme: Life


Weaving fine fibres of unripe 
beliefs, from a fire base, a blue bird 

scrambles, shading the stone valley. 
There was no thrift for the cadavers. 

The burnt relics were eating away the greens 
of tearful eyes. Sun was slugging again. 

A gag, a prison, a list; the trial was not 
ending. A smell of burning leaves from a 

guilt of smouldering garden, seeps through 
the procession of thoughts, something which 

cannot be questioned. Red blossoms of 
clouds distract the blue flames of stars.


More By  :  Satish Verma

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