Echoes

It was burning again like goldenrods in drift valley of ethnic hate. You start climbing down deeper in fear holding tight your identity. The anguish of ruined home under the shadows of bribed hands, runs on the bodies of pilgrims who were protecting the unborn baby. Along the shores of morality, a prodigal becomes a martyr, forever a blind rock in the womb of an infant truth, not yet reached the gates of heaven. A father begs for pardon, spawning the tireless edicts, with its grieving craft of burdens and weightlessness. The time’s predicament will not tell the secret of death. SATISH VERMA