Are you sure after the sunset
the hunger will find the mouths
in black alley?

I go to my ailing land.
Stand on a mass grave.
No faces, No names.

Brother, I am not bickering
I am listing on my fingers.

Was it possible that we could
count the virgins in the town?

Mudslinging starts. Who was not
corrupt? The prevailing conjugation.
How you will tell your kid who
was your mother?

I become restless, tossing around.
A single word shimmers like a
blood soaked jewel. I pick it up.
A baby poem is born.

Satish Verma