Without Qualms

He resumed walking with the sun propelled in river of fire of blunt red and striking yellow to resonate with the pain of her, who sleeps on the thighs of a temple tree. The vibrations still follow the echo of forgiveness, a shadow of palm rises on white wounds. The snoring of blood letting winds break the bones crisply, on the jealous shores. Where was the need of sharp edges to slice the heart? The words spilled on the table like blood curdling bats. The candle light turns black with a guilt. Small gods are weeping inside the tear scorched eyes. Somebody prays for the fallen monuments of tongues and bullet killed bells of tributes. Stars started hiding their faces. SATISH VERMA