He had pulled in many springs
but failed to find a heaven.
Asked not to look away. In
absences he tried to enter
the wounds again. An aboriginal
pain flies over my shoulder.
A spiritual failure of mankind?
Counting unctuously the birds nesting
on an invisible tree.
This narration has no vocabulary.
Only oily sounds of original
lunacy. You want to cover
an empty canvas. A self-portrait
was abandoned after
the cloudburst of slogans.
Satish Verma
