Poetry

The ashes will come back
in mauve,
in furrowed face of hunger.

I will wait for the clouds
to welcome
the blue flames.

I was the one
to walk on time
and squeeze the truth

for finding the essence of life,
to know the goodness,
of the ills of neighbourhood

via fake creations.
When a gull walks on the grass
I call the sun


Satish Verma