Poetry

It was inheritance
of age
before the mirrors
for the language of windows.

The high rise buildings
always cast a pall of gloom.earth seems to slide
and I cannot reach the sky.

I want to say
what I did not want to say.
The lake has gone in a siege
till infinity.

Wrap me a sharp knife
I will cut my tongue today
to offer to goddess of shame.
The light has gone away from my heart.

Satish Verma