Unending Story

Satish Verma

In the dust 
from the dust. I will see your 
face daily, 
in between the spaces 
in between the hunger― 
against the wall, where you were 
asked to stand erect 

The clock was moving without 
hands. I will hear only the 
tick, in dark, like the regular 

Ultimately the space wins. We start 
moving apart. The distance increases. 
Echo becomes dull and 
then acoustics fail. 

Only the specks now speak. 
Each spot was a name 
was somebody, was a living being.