Poetry

To drill a hope in the drowned soul
was very difficult,
winds had blown away
the talisman.

Stress was palpable,
you could tear the weather with empty hands.
Mists had walked into the houses
to pick up the burning cheeks.

Man was playing with nature
until death time.
Stones piled up,
burning tyres on the road.

Visionaries were celebrating the all blinds
day, in an echo chamber_
and all the people were standing
on no-man’s-land for peaceful coexistence.


Satish Verma