Depending On Me

Disconnecting tragedy you live again, in myths and illusions. The grit. You lack the spine. Rocks. A slide. The chicken. The cow-pathway leads to a barn of a mud hut, where you stand every evening to welcome the hoofs dust. That tells the history, the pain of unknowing, revealing the name of a killer. There was silence interrupted by a shriek. Someone was rising from the grave. The inert things start moving. Satish Verma