Poetry

Inheriting the dust of street
something of a lofty ideal
in politics of poverty, I want to get back
to my native moon.There are
too much wounds here.

My green blessings came from the dark.
Sun was altering the geometry of crops.
Genes were manipulated and the
debate was running on fiction.
Down the drain went the hybrids.

To glow or not to glow was the big question
and the hunger was discovering the cause.
Suicides had toppled the numbers
and clouds had become colorful.
God knows when the ceremony will end.


Satish Verma