Sunrise

The decline was steep. Somewhere the clouds burst in tears. Sitting on the flat prejudice we weaved a gift of poison for everyone. It did not stain our shirts. The big fat people moved about with great confidence to change the world. I suffered inwardly. Perhaps the greed drank from our passions. A spectre of hounding. Which never stopped. My parents knew better, always talked of comportment. Like our love for neighbours. The turmoil drifted now in our hearts. A self-potrait became the vehicle of death I visited myself, to wind up the matters of concern. The graffiti on the abandoned walls of memories erased time, altered the wounds, and trembling shadows. Sunrise will provide me a lesson. SATISH VERMA