Archaic Humour

Something was always missing around one had to die daily. To find out, what? Just a slip of time, life was death and death was life. Death of a man or death of a city death had no other name. Hearing the footfalls of death dogs were howling around a temple where god was dying. The nation now mourns for the banished priest. At the burning pyre there is still no peace. Anger lives inside the books, flame hides in the candles. And a rage surges forward in the bones of archaic humour. Satish Verma