Unsung Hands

How can you unsee an etched wound?
The name will tell the moon.
An empty sky now calls for
the rains.

What was it-
the ceremonial farewell?
A dependable pain now starts
pulling out the sharpnels from the body.

You may call it
meaningless. My poem now
moves between the stings. Somebody
was going for a merciless kill.

Satish Verma