Between a calm and a thunder,
I amputate my days, from the mediocre life of mindless alienation.
I bemoan for sanctity.
Man remains innocent of,
another man’s melody.
I get frightened.
Birds are suddenly falling from the sky.
Where the heart denies
a heart, a perfect rhythm,
mind bares a wound.
History does not repeat the truth.
Blank shadows break the windows
and I collect the ashes,
from the burnt plots and ruined homes.
Sometimes you pretend to kill,
an argument deliberately
to know the depth of the answer.
The turmoil of half-being;
the unhappiness of fulfillment,
the transformation of a death into peace,
was it in harmony?
Satish Verma
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