Whispering Sparrows Poem by Satish Verma
Whispering Sparrows
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.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Topic(s) of this poem: voices
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8/5/2026 12:30:43 PM # rel_20260803T153344Z_4267e77
