In A Tent Village

Satish Verma

you walk on wodden legs 
a lump in breast, though benign 
but kids are abducted from wombs; 
a road map is spread on the dirty mat 
for finding the missing link, 
while a solid-fuel missile was ready 
to be launched 

scarlet lips for décor, 
unwanted hairs on chin popping out, 
archipelago of hawks in brain: 
the vulnerable, tending their wounds, hiding 
in tunnels of shame; I like black berries 
in sleep, cannot listen my own voice, 
have become blind for my own hands 

dried stigmas of crocus will color my 
obscene poverty orange-yellow, slum 
rain, no place to sit, old memories are coming back 
I am unstuck from a wheelchair