Windows
Sky wept
when you hanged the young truth
from a tree.
A shadow falls
on the hill
for a savior.
A winged flaw
becomes a legend
for the sake of a sword.
A nameless letter
betrays the will of a cage
to set the bird free.
My forehead marks
the wrinkles of ancestors
who would not give a name.
Satish Verma
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