FACE OF TRUTH

It hurts, the abstract isolation of life 
emptying of self. 
The infection 
of water in the sun. 
A nameless pain annihilates 
the ascending desires. 
I want no more 
traffic of dreams. 
Only discovery of Being. 

Where the city had gone from the mirror 
of my poems? 
Streets had the color 
of a wrinkled maid. 
And new dictionary had new words 
of an obscene vernacular. 
I wanted my stack, my lake. 

Surface exploded into nothingness. 
The lake boiled in the heat of eternity. 
A part of the evening was cool, 
participating in the festivities 
of homing birds. 
It took a whole night 
to see the face of truth!

Satish Verma