Song of Blue

That fake encounter takes place everyday amidst peels of darkness and terror strikes you when you were looking for the healing torch. Clutching the old rags of history I sit on the pyramid of bones: somewhere the sanity puts up a metaphore in the abyss of ashes. I travel with untouchables to unburden the past; between us we throw the questions to escape from the sizzling heat of truth, lifting the lids of time. Cause will suffer, the answers linger pure as glittering lies. The purple guilt smells of a dying flute. SATISH VERMA