SONG OF BLUE

That fake encounter 
takes place everyday amidst peels of darkness 
and terror strikes you when you were 
looking for the healing torch. 

Clutching the old rags of history 
I sit on the pyramid of bones: 
somewhere the sanity puts up a metaphore 
in the abyss of ashes. 

I travel with untouchables to unburden 
the past; between us we throw the questions 
to escape from the sizzling heat of truth, 
lifting the lids of time. 

Cause will suffer, the answers linger 
pure as glittering lies. The purple 
guilt smells of a dying flute.

Satish Verma