Fate Of Man

Satish Verma

The roses you bring every morning 
become an interval between hope and ending. 
Thinking about it, impulsively I 
contradict God against humanity. 

Little murder here and there 
of nihilism, sweet smell of faith, 
taking any road to reach the climax, 
to die for the zeroism. 

An outsider becomes the altered hero, 
you would find the unimaginable, 
lamenting and bleeding, blunting 
the eagerness, the spark. 

We will inherit the crowned homes, 
the brief interlude between crime and award. 
The mud, the water, the slugs 
will decide the fate of man.