Poetry

In last journey he wanted to have
a free run without rumors
of reconciliation.

From years back he watched –
friends, disappeared one by one. He
became his own enemy. The ravines

were waiting for the sacrificial throw
of a bound martyr.
Between being and action

he was ready for the kiss of death –
from a ferocious opponent,
whose chest spread like a hood of cobra –

ready to strike. His ghost will walk now
on the clouds, days in, days out,
to read the black lips of blissful time.


Satish Verma