LINEAGE

It was set on fire, the market place: 
from a distance I was watching, the 
hieroglyphic climate of the cutouts; 

some shoes with yellow human feet embedded 
in them, were thrown on the images 
of gods, lying on the steps of tanks: 

on hills the sex workers were doing 
brisk business in private retreats 
of the holiest of towns, a golden dome 

was being erected as an insult to poors, 
the streaked priests chanting the sacred 
hymns, hurling the abuses on red faced 

simians waiting on the rooftops, 
ashamed to share the inherited lineage 
but why one should kill one’s own daughter?

Satish Verma