Treasure Island

Satish Verma

(5-6-1935)

Millstone


They were decapitated
in winter.
To send forth again, fresh,
the green twigs of summer.
Trees of roadside.

My friends, I used to talk
to them in my morning walk.

Once I sat under
a wishing tree for a divine feel.
There were lots of colored threads
tied round the massive trunk.
I wanted to arrive in the neighbourhood
of absurd escapes of a
fake religion.

My footfalls on stairs were becoming
louder, lugging the wasted life.
It was time now.
To understand the deep shadows
of unanswered questions.

Submitted: Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, April 16, 2013

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  • Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi (4/16/2013 9:21:00 AM)

    as long as we do not help ourselves, God may not fulfill our desires I may not agree with one of the lines in this poem! ! (Report) Reply

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