Satish Verma
Absurd Myths
Crossing the divine,
I ask the marigolds
to return to the dust.
The gods were angry,
and dead would not speak
and the living were dead.
I am now heading towards-
the mute bells, disbelieving-
the great enlightment.
Rebuilding what was not true.
A dream will start telling
the price of the inflicted wounds.
I am not sure:
who were at fault.
The letters?
or the words?
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