GOLDEN VALLEY

Blackened silence was holding the reflectivity, 
reality was on the run. 
Exile was complete. 
Dark secrets, standing on head 
remained buried in your chest 
absorbing all colors of sun. 

A night remembers the friends 
who went over the hills one by one 
to find the pugmarks of panther 
that was killing your infant biographies. 
The world stood bodyguard 
not allowing any immortality. 

Your speech was clear, but unheard 
in terror of burnt-out principles. 
New sleeping cells are coming up for a 
metaphysical revolt. A heron was 
stabbed by soaring kites 
in the golden valley.

Satish Verma