Satish Verma

To slice a hope in stark terror 
he thought to bid holy goodbye 
to destiny, and let himself go 
in the shadow of weeping deads. 

The orange moon looked mutilated. 
Quietly stood a suicide bomber, 
ready to get killed for a home in white heaven 
and destroying the leaping stars. 

Who had the blood on the hands? 
Hiding in the white gown, 
crossing the shelter, to dropp the guilt 
on the road, never to look back. 

Century of oppression, like baked blood 
shines on the coffins of martyrs. 
At dawn the pariahs promise to lead 
the band towards democracy.