An Elegy

The abundance spills on my
torn shirt, when I was
gathering your voice.

The affiliated sore
begins to fester in your face―
after flying a kite.

It blurs, when you give
a speech, manipulating the lives
of innocent bystanders.

When you were heaving the numbers,
I was holding on the poems, like coins
not your paper thoughts.

Being blind was not becoming
a Buddha in the garden.
Suicides were increasing every day.

Satish Verma