Poetry

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?