Beautiful

A cinder, neither coal nor ash, my life, clogs the roots of swaying carnations. Fear, like a cheetah, runs faster than discretion. Helplessly you tear off the last page of the book without reading the end. One petaled coral, green, hides the white death, drowning the hope. The river has changed the course, without meaning, purpose, meandering, engulfing the cardinal designs. A homeless god wanders, in my garden, to sit for a while in the ruins of burnt umbers, till the shrine is completed. SATISH VERMA