THE BELIEVERS

Inheriting the dust of street 
something of a lofty ideal 
in politics of poverty, I want to get back 
to my native moon.There are 
too much wounds here. 

My green blessings came from the dark. 
Sun was altering the geometry of crops. 
Genes were manipulated and the 
debate was running on fiction. 
Down the drain went the hybrids. 


To glow or not to glow was the big question 
and the hunger was discovering the cause. 
Suicides had toppled the numbers 
and clouds had become colorful. 
God knows when the ceremony will end.

Satish Verma