Satish Verma
ONE HUNDRED MOONS
On the battle turfs of a vernacular
hunger, the hikes were killing
the uncertain values. Committing suicide
was a regular feature.
To pay off the debts of a flag.
By using pesticides on unsuspecting
guests of tomorrow.
The clocks were set one century back.
What could be done of an anonymous
terror bomb placed in a lunchbox?
Do we wait for an accident?
Who will open it?
All summer, one hundred moons
I will wash your face
to read the command.
Who had put the stiletto in your hand?
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