Death In Exile
He had pulled in many springs
but failed to find a heaven.
Asked not to look away. In
absences he tried to enter
the wounds again. An aboriginal
pain flies over my shoulder.
A spiritual failure of mankind ?
Counting unctuously the birds nesting
on an invisible tree.
This narration has no vocabulary.
Only oily sounds of original
lunacy. You want to cover
an empty canvas. A self-portrait
was abandoned after
the cloudburst of slogans.
Satish Verma
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