Satish Verma

Coming of age becomes 
temporal, when 
I start to speak. 

It was my ancient wound― 
which had come into being, 
to bleed. 

No mannerism, 
idiosyncrasy or culture 
was needed to stay dumb. 

Time runs in a 
narrow tunnel, to cross the enemy lines. 
I will unmourn my death. 

Like collecting the bluebells. 
After the burial of candor, 
there was no other ceremony.