Confessional Truth
Liquefied version of pain has started working.
human material constructs
a floating emotion at last.
One by one I rediscover
the children of sorrow
among the ruins of ancient prayers.
The fear lurks
under the trees,
under the stones.
I can read it,
unwashed stillness of a revolution.
It was real yesterday,
but collapsed on the rim of today.
My wrinkled faith gets
ready for a proliferation of rites.
The land suffers.
My solitude remains unmeasured.
In despair I latch on to
sounds of pursuing light.
Impatiently the dialogues
are thrown around.
The philosophy of confessional truth
becomes very auspicious.
SATISH VERMA
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