Wounded Veils

Satish Verma

Some question? 
It always haunted me. 
In combat posture, 
why would I become a child? 
To cry and learn a laugh? 

A green memory, 
of the shade of bougainvillea's 
arbor, entwining the wooden pain 
of my frame, to know 
the faith of water, improvidently 
creating the false interiors. 

How far was the home? 
You want to toe the 
peace of garden, blue sky 
and dark night.