ARCHIVES

Fear of a mound, 
tumbling down 
on the half-buried, half dead 
archives of desires, comes 
like a stampede of hoops on my chest. 
I lie alone in a desert of insanity. 

From the sea of agony 
one dropp of salted tear, 
the title of a wasted life, brings 
the blood stained truth. 
I want to wash my eyes again. 

To watch the autumn leaves falling 
on impeccable stones 
for forgiveness. 
We were not the fruits. 

A song of blind water 
enters the earth 
to kiss the roots, 
foo giving liberation from 
sun leaked night.

Satish Verma