During the litany of questions,
I will talk to you,
about the innocence
of flowing river.
Here was your faultline.
You had washed your words in
the dirty stream.
Now, you were complaining about the winds.
I will not ask you
to kill the thrill of hurting
the defence. But
were you ready for a recount?
Black, as a burnt-out bread,
the time; will leave the wounds open.
I will write a poem
you will start screaming.
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Comments about this poem (The Threshold by Satish Verma )
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