Middle Truth Poem by Satish Verma

White doves
with clipped wings
were losing the visual acuity.

The pride was
damaged without consolation.

How much you can climb
on the heap of the dead?
Honeybees won't buzz now in sun.

Can I ask your real name
by birth? There would not be any religion?

Perhaps I was not pure
as your virgin paradise.

Your breadth does not reach me any more.

I am going high
to confront the unknown,
to kill the flesh.
There were no bones of truth.