No Time For Mourning

Without shadow
an agony, slits me open.
As when I bleed.
I write a poem.

It hurts,
when you touch the words,
the lines, the paragraph―
the page.

From teaching
to be a learner―
a long odyssey from―
innocence to scream.

My namesake, my akin
dies daily. I dig a mass grave
to find my twins,
where the god lived.

Satish Verma