Where death
and exotica meet,
life stands naked
in midst of our sacred hymns,
Shadow fighting is not actuality.
An essay on truth fades.
Someday I will pull down the curtain.

At the end of the road, death waits,
apologizing for coming unannounced.
A white cloud drifts in our arms.
The deep sorrow walks with us
and the empty home,
now belongs to moonlight.

In nothingness our achievement claims.
A handful of victories,
tossing here and there.
The empty words transport
the dark lies.
The truth lies bleeding,
and we flee,
from our predictions.

Satish Verma