Poetry

The wound peeks out
from the round eyes. No lashes,
brows. Singed face betrays the scars
of last century.
He was fighting with his fists only.

Iced lids throwing the flames;
god knows what was the pain of memories?
He did not reverse the wheels of woes;
did not bring back the stream
lost in the volcanic rocks.

Playing truant from black death
a frail hope kindles the small fish
to swim against the current,
ruts of repetitions and bores of endless
barrels shooting roadmaps.



Satish Verma