Swinging on the knobbled
branches of a tree that hobbled,
towards the pond that held,
life's juices that meld.

The bird flew high,
towards a sorrow so nigh,
the dust settled on a scar,
on a land of afar.

We walked towards,
this violence,
so radiant and bright,
held on to our leaking wounds,
so tight.

I lay my hand upon this present,
scarred with the past on the crescent.
There they go to the flowers,
'neath the austere sentry towers.


varada said...

Can you explain what you are trying to say Sagar.I kinda could not figure out myself.

Sagar said...

varada~ it is a snap shot of my mood at a particular instance.


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