Poetry

Born out of hate
condemned to fear from each other,
the race lives, the race dies.

The loser finds a quotient
to dig a mass grave
for innocent paeans.

My stains were bigger than you.
In no man’s land, a corpse
is lying unattended.

A terrorist strikes in the house
of god, who will not react
in the face of a massacre.

Death will not atone
the grief of a child,
whose mother did not come back.


Satish Verma