A Spirits Tale

They brought back saddle without the warrior. Wrinkled eyes of a broken mother frozen with tears, pick up the pieces of carpet woven with blood. Lotuses are disappearing from the serene lake; migrated to seeds. There are no visitors. Who was losing the battle? Have not you heard about militancy and mutilated god? We gave him our sons and daughters, still he was hungry. The mankind celebrates the decline, mourning hills, dances with the bones of ancestors. SATISH VERMA