Millstone

They were decapitated in winter. To send forth again, fresh, the green twigs of summer. Trees of roadside. My friends, I used to talk to them in my morning walk. Once I sat under a wishing tree for a divine feel. There were lots of colored threads tied round the massive trunk. I wanted to arrive in the neighbourhood of absurd escapes of a fake religion. My footfalls on stairs were becoming louder, lugging the wasted life. It was time now. To understand the deep shadows of unanswered questions. Satish Verma