Poetry

Walking the path with otherness;
not achieving anything,
I, condemned, to remain solitary, decline
to join the gods of a crowd. So that
my sun, remains shadowless.

No, it is not the final verdict.
I was always incomplete, unburdening
my cipher, failing against the blood
that demanded uninterrupted flow, blending
right and wrong. My words were too much

to say No. The melting snow remembered
the names of the trees. On the breast of
earth a signature theme plucks the
grass to make way for the rose beds. This
makes no secret of betrayal.

Less prudent, I blunder, try to untie myself
from future, and become little me, playing
with the mask of present, carrying my blankness
to become hungry again, for the knowledge
which was never my fatal being.


Satish Verma