Satish Verma

my poems make me sad. 

You reflect the times 
my body leaves the wound marks on sand. 

Again I had gone to my tattered home 
to sleep under the moon. 

There was only a small window. 
I would look at the stars whole night – 

to conceive and jump into a lake 
of synthetic fathers and hired wombs. 

The grieving faith now holds you responsible. 
O god, in reverse order, become a man.

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