Satish Verma

Pupil was on parole. 
You abandon the inexhaustible 
patience with increasing distance. 
Everything was fading 
when you look back. 

The things, always return. 
Like you did not carry a bundle 
of postcards written 
by your father, while emptying 
the house. 
His carved signature is still 
printed in my brain. 

Now my grand daughter saves 
the e mails sent by me. The woes 
of a pilgrim. A neutral passage 
with no feel. Some day a glitch 
will wipe out the treasure. 

We have changed the costumes. 
The inside has raw palisades.