What shall I write
from the empty, desolate heart,
when every word is being scraped?

You want to clean the mess
of a lifetime,
yet labour brings loneliness
and you inherit
the depth of a problem.

A thought which has no ending.
A constant battle with yourself
in the bleak winter of age.

One by one they have died,
Your invisible gods.
The vast landscape
of knowing the truth
still remains unconquered.

Pursue you must for the sake of moment
a flame which has no heat!

Satish Verma