The Debris
Give me the whole
of a fragment,
I am standing on a frozen lake
of inadequate compassion.
The totality of implications frightens.
Look deep in my eyes
you may find the plumage
of the green peacocks. They are gone.
Walk on the burning coals
to perceive actuality. Life slaps the illusion.
Debris falls from a shooting star,
overwhelming the clouds.
Rains will not come now for a while.
History heaps few glares
on the spinning darkness.
The theater runs for an empty house.
SATISH VERMA
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