ONE HUNDRED MOONS

On the battle turfs of a vernacular 
hunger, the hikes were killing 
the uncertain values. Committing suicide 
was a regular feature. 

To pay off the debts of a flag. 
By using pesticides on unsuspecting 
guests of tomorrow. 
The clocks were set one century back. 

What could be done of an anonymous 
terror bomb placed in a lunchbox? 
Do we wait for an accident? 
Who will open it? 

All summer, one hundred moons 
I will wash your face 
to read the command. 
Who had put the stiletto in your hand?

Satish Verma