The Golden Gate

Satish Verma

Was it too late 
to find out, who was 
morally wrong? 

It was an art of dying 
for you. 

Shapeless, a big pain 
flourishes in my limbs, 
but I remain too static 
to locate my roots. 

The bell will not ring today. 
Somebody kills a story. 
There was no hero. 

Resting, my head on stones 
I will bleed rest of life. 

No cuts. No bruises appear. 
Naked as an arrow, 
a sharp gilded attack 
opens the cage.