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