Poetry

Night enters into the drift.
I get through a fossil, quite beyond
the light, a search begins for a tortured
being in some ideal's mire.

The battle begins, of fears and doubts
and upon the trampled sun-blind truths
of past in dry desert of hungry sands
where the veined clot rises to the lung of moon.

Revival of black magic takes place, marking
the boundaries of denial, you will not cross
the line of fire, till the shade between evil
and good was obliterated and sins become
bones of dreams.

Will you wait on the gate, till eternity
accepts you as a forgotten child of
wronged parents? I shall start calling
the names of innocent bystanders.


Satish Verma