Annual Ritual
That awkward moment
when you stammer,
truth spurts out:
how not to offer a straight reply.
Your green eyes
tell me the pain
of last century.
Of armistice, of amputated legs
and then you don’t know what to do with your existence.
Darkened trees spit the starlight.
I will wait for the maddening crowd
to take the dip in the holy lake,
to wash out their sins
under the full moon.
SATISH VERMA
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