A HANDFUL OF VICTORIES

Where death 
and exotica meet, 
life stands naked 
in midst of our sacred hymns, 
Shadow fighting is not actuality. 
An essay on truth fades. 
Someday I will pull down the curtain. 

At the end of the road, death waits, 
apologizing for coming unannounced. 
A white cloud drifts in our arms. 
The deep sorrow walks with us 
and the empty home, 
now belongs to moonlight. 

In nothingness our achievement claims. 
A handful of victories, 
tossing here and there. 
The empty words transport 
the dark lies. 
The truth lies bleeding, 
and we flee, 
from our predictions.

Satish Verma