Again you made friends, words
wanted to leave the paper blank
for the parched lips,
crying eyes,
trembling hands.

Missing stanzas,
flowing river,
rootless floats.
You did not feel like-
time filled you every minute,
you were empty, poor.

When you read the end
you understood beginning.
Will to die was not sufficient
you had not completed the script.
Alone in crowd you wanted words
to commit suicide.

Democracy was a funny name.
Everybody was sad, except the lead
who did not know where to go.

One day you found your voice
and were surprised
you were everybody
when you were hurt, you bled inside
and your blood then mixed with
the blood of everybody. Then everybody cried
and you became separated from you and did not say anything!

Satish Verma