a poem by Satish Verma, India

There was a possibility,
moment of truth was there.
Fear had retreated after interrogation,
it had displaced the malice.

His innocence was a book of
unhappiness, a pedagogical escape;
and he died in advance before
the pursuit of consciousness.

The myth always ruled and
gossip was more convincing.
An eagle swooped at dusk
to pick up a mocking dove.

He moved in hot corridors of secrets
without looking at the abandoned coins.
Poverty always followed him like
a shadow, a queasy reminder of a falling star.


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