You were starving the words
to commit the waves of hunger.
What I wanted was a patch of shade
under an olive grove.
No intrusion. It was a miscarriage
of justice. We were searching the –
missing links between the years
We sell our gods and move on
unquietly to understand the-
lament of middle of the road, when
sun was nestling in the clouds.
It was Fall. Fall of vanity, fall of
integrity. Fall, fall-
my pride, my tears. The season
Copyright © Satish Verma