I CANNOT WEEP

Those vicious strikes. 
Beaten by sticks, 
a panther dies on moon 
in midstop. 

Standing on a bomb 
digging a tunnel 
you pay obeisance to 
the god of war. 

This sweet revenge 
for your forefathers? 
Who could not walk straight 
in the bastard crowd. 

Spilling the sperms 
O pimp of faith, 
why are you selling 
your poverty? 

The heap of limbs 
on the breast of a mother. 
A hand of a child was cut 
in every womb.

Satish Verma