Somalia Calling

I met a talking moon on the road of death. What easily comes, goes easily with winds. I was counting the ribs of my dying child. He went into the woods to fight the unknown wars of hunger. Bunker:it went into flames sailing into brilliance of space. I am going to inherit the black grains of molten day. How I will confront the night tainted with bonfires of sunken eyes ? God particles in tiny fists spreading the spun cotton, intitating a revolution of thoughts. A bumpy argument. The icon denies the guilt of mass killing. I want to remain unsung. Satish Verma