Poetry

Salt-of-the lips.
You never know, how it hurts
the bigotry.

It was not the might
of divinity, when you sentence
the child for blasphemy.

I would not kiss the-
stone, where the blood stained
the sun. Grey halo was collapsing.

It was the helplessness
of the river, accepting the guilt
of sunken boat.

Again I recite your name
in sleep. The sting was as cruel
as the tongue.