Author Information
In My Vernacular
Folder:
Satish Verma Cleaning the Augean
stables, I was going
to punish myself.
A soldier of your conscience
you will not commit
suicide for the sake of heaven.
History repeats itself.
There was no waiting
to open the morgue and
search your cadaver.
A burnt out stigma
still spreads the incense.
Blackbirds fly in unison.
A crepe bandage
was not sufficient to alleviate
the pain of centuries.
I am still asking
myself to receive a gift
of poverty.
Truth has lost its glitter.
