Poetry

Crushing the tangerines,
escalating the dissent
of lean eyes
for a slaughter in the trench.

Unadorned, the little soft
hole, I watch
display of hair,
teeth and shoes.

Who had conceived
the invasion?
Time clock, you need
a prosthesis to move.

Dehumanize the littered
street. This has become the empire
of death. No crying would
be allowed under the feet.

Satish Verma