THIS ODYSSEY

The wound peeks out 
from the round eyes. No lashes, 
brows. Singed face betrays the scars 
of last century. 
He was fighting with his fists only. 

Iced lids throwing the flames; 
god knows what was the pain of memories? 
He did not reverse the wheels of woes; 
did not bring back the stream 
lost in the volcanic rocks. 

Playing truant from black death 
a frail hope kindles the small fish 
to swim against the current, 
ruts of repetitions and bores of endless 
barrels shooting roadmaps.

Satish Verma