Poezja

When there was a cloudburst― 
it was time― I thought 
for the soul search. 
 
Again I turn back to― 
our complexity, in religion, 
caste and lineage. 
 
The prairie was giving― 
way, for a volcano to erupt. 
Can there be a drive from the back seat? 
 
A prisoner of one's own 
follies, you would wait till― 
the sky comes down and liberates you. 
 
The illegitimacy bursts 
open, when you claim that 
no child was left behind.