satishverma

HISTORY WAS WALKING

Death in meadow 
on leaves, under the sky. 
History was walking over the bodies 
of those who were in service 
to move the wheels of sorrow. 

The horror sinks slowly. 
They were killed without war. 
Unpaid debts of life, conflicts 
at home. Amidst the laughter 
somebody hangs in a noose. 

Cry, cry, the possessed one, 
your script had failed you. 
Your chosen god was fake one 
your unknown fear was real - 
under the veil of sky-blue peace. 

The faith has a price now, 
put up for sale on the combed street, 
from the opening of a number. 
No wages are fixed for lying deep 
round the pain of centuries.

Satish Verma