Confessional Truth

Liquefied version of pain has started working. 
human material constructs 
a floating emotion at last. 
One by one I rediscover 
the children of sorrow 
among the ruins of ancient prayers. 
The fear lurks 
under the trees, 
under the stones. 

I can read it, 
unwashed stillness of a revolution. 
It was real yesterday, 
but collapsed on the rim of today. 
My wrinkled faith gets 
ready for a proliferation of rites. 

The land suffers. 
My solitude remains unmeasured. 
In despair I latch on to 
sounds of pursuing light. 
Impatiently the dialogues 
are thrown around. 
The philosophy of confessional truth 
becomes very auspicious.

Satish Verma