Poetry

Young days start with a nostalgia
for a lost freedom
Anxiety was the prime suspect.

As the age moves on,
truth consumes the virtue.
I hold this insult
in the throes of conscience with tears.

The dreams did not last long
in the wild eyes of geniuses.
Grace and dignity fell short of sinners.
The prince of blackness strode
on the white souls.

I could not have been a witness
of paradox.
Lacked in the old books
I still wait on the highway
for a sun to climb the hill.


Satish Verma