ACOUSTICS ARE NOT WORKING

Maimed, tortured for love of resistance 
this night appears to be 
without an end. 
There was nothing to lose, 
it was looking for some reason 
to die on the side of a cloud 
when the sickle moon was sailing. 

Tomorrow a new lie will be born. 
Even a suicide bomber 
will be tossed around, 
like a new coin. 
Weaving a dress of skin and bones 
in the little sky of so many 
purple birds. 

Acoustics are not working 
walls have no doors. 
By night only a torch will be moving.

Satish Verma