Poetry

Fear of becoming sane
inherits the hate of earth.
I wake up in the rains of time.

Fire of soulextracts the thought shapes
like stark naked truth
in the desert of pain –

unbirthing the child of wisdom.
I hardly think, in my failures.
The house will go up in blaze
by the earthen lamp of fading glory.

There was no light, a quick death
of lips and speech. The human touch-
prints had avenged for words.
Inspiration will wait.


Satish Verma