Unsung Hands

by Satish Verma

How can you unsee an etched wound?
The name will tell the moon.
An empty sky now calls for
the rains.

What was it -
the ceremonial farewell?
A dependable pain now starts
pulling out the shrapnels from the body.

You may call it
meaningless. My poem now
moves between the stings. Somebody
was going for a merciless kill.

17-Feb-2013

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