Depending On me

Disconnecting tragedy
you live again,
in myths
and illusions.

The grit. You lack the spine.
Rocks.
A slide.
The chicken.

The cow-pathway
leads to a barn of a mud hut,
where you stand every evening
to welcome the hoofs dust.

That tells the history,
the pain of unknowing,
revealing the name
of a killer.

There was silence
interrupted by a shriek.
Someone was rising
from the grave.

The inert things start moving.

Satish Verma