I am pulling out from the committed
sin, cadaver walking,
digging the gold from the pit.
Footwears of dead men were
heaped into a pile when
god was praying.
Was it a perceived tragedy
of a man drawing doodles
to offset the sunset?
You were alone, dousing
the fire and shaping the clay. The
hamlet was less inclined to intercede.
Your flesh slips from my hands
for a rebirth. I was flying a kite.
I was dead before you were born again.
Satish Verma
