An outcast, stripped and beaten 
up, the sickle moon 
smears the clouds with blood. 

I hate to wait for – 
the sun to undo this mess, 
an ethnic mutilation will bring a chaos. 

Nursing the peripheries, 
tribes were in pursuit of bayonets; 
will not surrender the arms 

to mate.Unceasingly they are 
digging up an abysmal grave 
to throw in the truths in uniform- 

in pursuit of feathers, offering 
for temple archways, turning 
on the future, for past glory!

Satish Verma