Poetry

A hand without fingers draws a self-portrait. Faceless, only eyes glaring like bucketfull of burning coals. Was it not enough to call ‘wolf’. The pain scorches the compound where the blood of innocent flowed because somebody was burning woods. The shifting continues in the ocean of grief, but the kelp remains there, connot be eased out. Even the violence makes the water blue. You were inhailing the white gowned death everyday. A moonlit landscape mourns for the living on earth.Satish Verma