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