ECHOES

It was burning again 
like goldenrods in drift valley of ethnic hate. 
You start climbing down deeper in fear 
holding tight your identity. 

The anguish of ruined home 
under the shadows of bribed hands, 
runs on the bodies of pilgrims 
who were protecting the unborn baby. 

Along the shores of morality, a prodigal 
becomes a martyr, forever a blind rock 
in the womb of an infant truth, not yet 
reached the gates of heaven. 

A father begs for pardon, spawning the 
tireless edicts, with its grieving craft 
of burdens and weightlessness. The time’s predicament 
will not tell the secret of death.

Satish Verma