Connived

Weaving fine fibres of unripe beliefs, from a fire base, a blue bird scrambles, shading the stone valley. There was no thrift for the cadavers. The burnt relics were eating away the greens of tearful eyes. Sun was slugging again. A gag, a prison, a list; the trial was not ending. A smell of burning leaves from a guilt of smouldering garden, seeps through the procession of thoughts, something which cannot be questioned. Red blossoms of clouds distract the blue flames of stars. SATISH VERMA