Poetry

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.