WHISPERING SPARROWS

The native walls
were hounding me-

out of game.
I was playing chess with god.

Was stoned to death.
A small boy's arm

was crushed.
He stole a bread.

What was the truism
of unheard voices?

Groping in green darkness
I was watching

the lethal plunge of man.

Satish Verma



Poetry by Satish Verma
Read 679 times
Written on 2010-08-25 at 12:55

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