Poetry

A livid moon had started 
a body count for undoing a book. 
The base thinks it has arrived. 
 
The death zones were unconnected 
by quality of crime waves. People 
have started sitting under green trees. 
 
A social outcast silently reaches 
the script. It was imperative that 
two-edged sowrd should become sectarian. 
 
The dew, the baked blood and the blades, 
wait for the lifting of sorrow. 
The fire would crack the code of death. 
 
Do not bribe the stained linen 
and dyed hair. The permafrost will 
swallow the petrified feet.