In Exile
With tall questions I am
alone, waiting for the
tomb robbers to come.
Truth was no more a religion.
You wanted to consecrate?
the illusion, sealed in myths.
A graffiti appears on the
waiting trees. Who put?
the curse on swaying blooms ?
The dialect of the moon will
not listen to heart beats of sun.
The grammar was in primitive state.
Yes, the music of lake has
a meaning. The boat will carry
the wreaths for the wilting words.
Satish Verma
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