Confessional Truth

Liquefied version of pain has started working. human material constructs a floating emotion at last. One by one I rediscover the children of sorrow among the ruins of ancient prayers. The fear lurks under the trees, under the stones. I can read it, unwashed stillness of a revolution. It was real yesterday, but collapsed on the rim of today. My wrinkled faith gets ready for a proliferation of rites. The land suffers. My solitude remains unmeasured. In despair I latch on to sounds of pursuing light. Impatiently the dialogues are thrown around. The philosophy of confessional truth becomes very auspicious. SATISH VERMA