Are you sure after the sunset
the hunger will find the mouths
in black alley ?
I go to my ailing land.
Stand on a mass grave.
No faces, No names.
Brother, I am not bickering
I am listing on my fingers.
Was it possible that we could
count the virgins in the town ?
Mudslinging starts. Who was not
corrupt ? The prevailing conjugation.
How you will tell your kid who
was your mother ?
I become restless, tossing around.
A single word shimmers like a
blood soaked jewel. I pick it up.
A baby poem is born.