Whispering Sparrows

by Satish Verma

The native walls
were hounding me-

out of game.
I was playing chess with god.

Was stoned to death.
A small boy’s arm

was crushed.
He stole a bread.

What was the truism
of unheard voices?

Groping in green darkness
I was watching

the lethal plunge of man.

16-Aug-2010

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