Against The Current

Satish Verma

That mad truth. 
The unborn was knifed 
long back. Now you throw― 
the net in the crowd. 

I had found you 
after the centuries of conflict― 
in small eyes, looking 
for the stolen myths. 

I want to hold your 
face one day and bury it 
in my tears. It should not have 
happened in the jungle 
of jinxed plays. 

The unmarked tree. I 
had picked up the fallen fruit 
to taste you. Would you 
find me in dark?