Poetry

The beams were ready to collide
on the bars of hate. The blast
was coming with adjectives.
It was immortality of a street which
was going to survive.

New herons will come to wade
in troubled waters. Pure white. But the
fish had left the shore and gone to hills.
The long necked birds will find the flaming
love of sands.

The stardust was singing, anointed by
sandal paste to count the uncollected
flowers of war which were thrown on
the returning soldiers after the defeat.
There is the news of repealing the pact.


Satish Verma