TALKING SANDS

The beams were ready to collide 
on the bars of hate. The blast 
was coming with adjectives. 
It was immortality of a street which 
was going to survive. 

New herons will come to wade 
in troubled waters. Pure white. But the 
fish had left the shore and gone to hills. 
The long necked birds will find the flaming 
love of sands. 

The stardust was singing, anointed by 
sandal paste to count the uncollected 
flowers of war which were thrown on 
the returning soldiers after the defeat. 
There is the news of repealing the pact.

Satish Verma