SCRUTINY

It spurs the hope 
in absent voice for a deaf ear. 
You will wash the ancestor’s prism 
for a natural death of a fault. 

Through me I skim the frozen 
lake of tears. 

Maybe I will watch the tree 
for some sanity to produce 
the blossoms - 

in the starved faith of a 
wanderer who will not speak 
for himself. 

All life he was trying to explain 
without words, 
the enormous efforts he was 
putting to lay down his hands 
on truth.

Satish Verma