Satish Verma
Depending On Me
Disconnecting tragedy
you live again,
in myths
and illusions.
The grit. You lack the spine.
Rocks.
A slide.
The chicken.
The cow-pathway
leads to a barn of a mud hut,
where you stand every evening
to welcome the hoofs dust.
That tells the history,
the pain of unknowing,
revealing the name
of a killer.
There was silence
interrupted by a shriek.
Someone was rising
from the grave.
The inert things start moving.
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