Poetry

A proxy life
I was fighting in the hourglass
to open the pathways of a grain
for a bloody birth of an idea.

Was time faithful to us
when we were drifting apart?
A prowling big cat had again attacked in dark
and broken the necks of lambs.

Now miracles are flying
and you want to get the solid gold
hidden in a borewell, the colour
of a sunset and a yellow wager.

Today I will forget the grief
of generations, dispossessed of death and myths.
You have not lifted the pugmarks
unburdening my truth.



Satish Verma