Throwing Down the Gauntlet
Crossing the burning barriers,
you take a fatal jump.
Brazenly, but giving little away.
Long shadows of ethnic clouds
were eroding the sun. Feeling the
wet lips you rub you sweaty
palms in vain.
Haunted, you would like to
kill the ghosts. You pull a silken
cord. A silver urn upturns the
ashes of your past.
Each truth walks without legs.
You are still incomplete. The
self-portrait will never hang
on the wall.
Satish Verma
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