The decline was steep.
Somewhere the clouds burst in tears.
Sitting on the flat prejudice
we weaved a gift of poison for everyone.
It did not stain our shirts.
The big fat people moved about
with great confidence to change the world.
I suffered inwardly.

Perhaps the greed drank
from our passions.
A spectre of hounding.
Which never stopped.
My parents knew better,
always talked of comportment.
Llike our love for neighbours.
The turmoil drifted now in our hearts.

A self-potrait became
the vehicle of death
I visited myself,
to wind up the matters of concern.
The graffiti on the abandoned
walls of memories erased
time, altered the wounds,
and trembling shadows.
Sunrise will provide me a lesson.

Satish Verma