Poetry

The panther goes for the neck only.
A body trembles on the stairs.
Scarred bones are strewn around in
the broad day light.

I sometimes hear a wailing sound.
Here lies the scarf, the coat, the shoes.
A nation is rambling in dark
woods. Faces have become stones.

No longer, the illustrious suffering will help.
How to judge the verdict?
Defence is proving the guilt,
and desert shouts a single
name.
How many meanings should be thrown
for one answer?
The tears. Are they not sufficient
to give the depth of immensity?


Satish Verma