Standing in a milk line you were
talking of depravity, of blood lines
and the breast enhancement.

A teenage fringe bomber wants
to sew the civil society and explodes
himself before the empty bakery.

A young gal throws her son
from the ninth floor and then jumps
to get the justice from indifferent god.

Can we talk and wash away our
guilt? Crossing the river was
not enough, we need drinking water.

Bits of human flesh are plastered
on the walls. The death wears a
face of daddy to kill the times.

Satish Verma