Author Information
In Exile
Folder:
Satish Verma With tall questions I am
alone, waiting for the
tomb robbers to come.
Truth was no more a religion.
You wanted to consecrate―
the illusion, sealed in myths.
A graffiti appears on the
waiting trees. Who put―
the curse on swaying blooms?
The dialect of the moon will
not listen to heart beats of sun.
The grammar was in primitive state.
Yes, the music of lake has
a meaning. The boat will carry
the wreaths for the wilting words.
