A SPIRIT'S TALE

They brought back saddle
without the warrior.
Wrinkled eyes of a broken mother
frozen with tears, pick up the pieces of carpet
woven with blood.

Lotuses are disappearing
from the serene lake; migrated to seeds.
There are no visitors.

Who was losing the battle?
Have not you heard about militancy
and mutilated god? We gave him
our sons and daughters, still he was hungry.

The mankind celebrates the decline,
mourning hills,
dances with the bones of ancestors.

Satish Verma