10 October, 2014

WORDS PLAY

Blending with the light,
as ancients did―
on the leafy path.

You turn your gun―
on an old skull,
with broken teeth,

to rewrite the murder,
without qualms. A sniper
would take an aim.

Untouchable, the years
roll by, sending echos
in the valley of tears.

A final stroke.
The blood stops in the veins
while the angel sleeps.

Satish Verma

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