Poetry

Were you the face of God 
in the temple of tooth. 
When fire was playing The Return 
of the Desert. 
 
I feel cheated, when talking 
of nonviolence, when you go for 
self-immolation in the 
water of straits. 
 
The military boots had failed, 
to quench the thirst of dead. 
How would you dig the graves 
of mauled, tribal gods? 
 
The final mile of human race 
comes in the face of triumph 
of the death, sharing 
the borders of flowing blood.