WET SAND

In the dim corridors
of a dirty game,
when the crime was rising
you were pursuing the self-ism
at the end of the smoke.

Was it not a wailing song
of a dahlia, blooming in sun;
when the life demanded
only a seed, an old coin
and an empty frame?



The fake encounters and torn
shirts of a bleeding tribe
will ask many unpleasant
questions from the forest.
Why the bees had stopped collecting honey?

Satish Verma