Whispering Sparrows

Folder: 
Satish Verma

The native walls 
were hounding me- 

out of game. 
I was playing chess with god. 

Was stoned to death. 
A small boy’s arm 

was crushed. 
He stole a bread. 

What was the truism 
of unheard voices? 

Groping in green darkness 
I was watching 

the lethal plunge of man.

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