Poetry

Give me some time
to live, with the possibility
of oscillating between temporal and spiritual feel.
I have already exhausted my age
behind the spiked doors.

I was longing
to meet myself today,
to find the throw back.
Which of me was real?
An antique bird feeding on honeydew?
Or a honed up desert hurricane?

A tremendous impact with retribution
pulls down the unbowed towers.
But the spirit screams in dark
and a light glows from the debris
true to seal the kisslock of death.

The century will still march forward
arranging the years in neat rows
at burial ground of memory.
The walls are still standing.


Satish Verma