Do not talk of unhealing wounds,
talk of the weapons.
Talk of the hands which used the arms
and talk of the brain which pressed the trigger.

Violence was primitive
but the cruel eyes had a new glint,
At night they ransacked, stamped and burned
the relics.

Is it the retrovirus of a new menace
dreaming the feast of thousands of corpses
choking the drains?

Why are we heading for the slaughter
of earth, pure vengeance
to turn the sun gloomy and black?

This time the river will turn aside and not meet
the ocean.
It will spread out in the parched land of thirst
and die for a cause.

Satish Verma