Two Poems by Sunil Sharma


Death, ironically, is a presence of

an absence; a healed wound, yet green

void filled up, yet aching

soft pain returning

on solitary evenings, middle of

crowds, in alien cities.


A room lived-in

now vacant, despite furniture

arranged similarly


the place- spirit sorely lacking.


A vibrant space

once alive, throbbing,

now that self-same space

bereft of a being

and systematically

being stripped clean of earlier signs

by the superstitious living.

©Sunil Sharma

The metro dusk, lonely

It looks vacant

like the eyes of

a young war widow


the orphans

of an ethnic cleansing;


its colour and melancholia


the tired observer

waiting, yet not waiting!

©Sunil Sharma

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