Poetry

Those vicious strikes.
Beaten by sticks,
a panther dies on moon
in midstop.

Standing on a bomb
digging a tunnel
you pay obeisance to
the god of war.

This sweet revenge
for your forefathers?
Who could not walk straight
in the bastard crowd.

Spilling the sperms
O pimp of faith,
why are you selling
your poverty?

The heap of limbs
on the breast of a mother.
A hand of a child was cut
in every womb.


Satish Verma