Your Voice

There was a sharp rise
of indecent things. On the
rocks you left my name
without flowers.

Make a heap of all
the gifts of life and griefs and
start a bonfire. No message
is going to come.

Let us live in separate bowls
of soup. Time had swept
them clean for a murder.

One day the alien god will
alight from the sins,
to alter the numbers.

The mudslide of untruths
will scupper your house
made of paper and pen.

by Satish Verma

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