Dilemma

There was the hunger and suicide. In favor of my brutal truth or virtue of my failure, I do not want any comments on my trauma. Morality has a dubious equation with power, provoking my anger. The days were full of abandoned kilns. No more shaping of containers in which one can put the moon, and honey and roses. Everything was turning brown with infinite, sulphur smelling teeth ready to bite into golden flesh. Convicts behind the walls were playing with mirrors to throw the light on slick towers. Death was laughing, waiting on the trees, eating black berries. And I was forced to taste the blood of sky with sodium – in sanctum sanctorum. SATISH VERMA