Poetry

Seven minutes of terror, 
and fourth generation of missiles. 
Can they go together? 
And road stops here? 
 
An honour killing will 
ensue? Do you think so? 
Ethnic hate runs deep in 
seeking revenge by remote sensing. 
 
I miss my ego. The poet’s 
pride; oscillating between 
water and beach. There was no 
boat in sight. 
 
Sitting on a rock. I visualize 
the firebrand west. Moon was rising. 
There was no rhyming in verse or 
cascading fall. Any one can climb- 
 
the tree and start throwing down 
the ripe mangoes. Was it a harvesting 
time of severing the cords.