THE END

Lines on forehead are deepening.
No signs of abatement
of fire in our bellies.

The hunger we inherited
is only comforting
the mouthless.

Broken laughs.
Strange bedfellows
chopping off the murals from the lips.

A body rots,
stinks.
Maggots fly.

Negotiations are still on.
Who will dissect the legend
to find the cause of death?

Like a clay model, a soldier breaks.

Satish Verma