Messengers are out, 
dynasty strikes. 
A haze of dust storm filters down in tearless eyes. 

Not caring, not grubbing my inward eye. 
I am becoming blind. 
A white moon starts bleeding 
under the weight of wingless stars. 

You never said, 
I never heard the rich voice within 
the rocks. A tale went to asylum. 
we trembeled under the trees, listening to war drums. 

Totems were incoherent. Temples were mute. 
I am nude in my wounds, 
cannot raise the hands, cannot hurt anybody. 
A swallow has made a home in my home.

Satish Verma