Tell me, is it not pathetic
that we keep on drifting
away from our loved-ones as the
time beats us out.
You were in a marathon.
Did something go wrong? Why,
why did you run faster than others
to become a sole survivor of the massacre?
Life would want to know
your name, which you had wiped
out from every page of the book,
uncorrupting the painful cessation.
What was concealed
in between the words when you
went into the soul
to erase the bodyprint from the bed?
There was nothing left unsaid.
The death said, I will not come.
Satish Verma's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (REPARATION by Satish Verma )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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