A heap of voices hails you, when you stop
in the tract.
The silence migrates to new depths
where silhouettes are created,
on the veil of solitude.
It was the flame of pride.
Only there was being,
Of non – being.
A load is lifted. a tender death smiles
I walk in the deep woods,
to collect my mother’s ashes.
She had a scented presence in the sunset.
I will weave a pattern,
of shooting stars in the black sky.
I may not go back
to the epitaph, for a goddess of first
and last war with my conscience.
The full text of infinite pain,
will remain a secret.
I never wanted to remain blameless.
The sneaking time will tell the truth.
Satish Verma