Water Was Transparent

Satish Verma

A firefly in a jar 
will not fly. 

Presiding over the genocide 
how can you count the dead 
children of god, on the street, 
by your forked tongue? 

The roving eyes. Chameleons. 
With folded hands, they 
throw the snow on your 
disheveled hair. 

The morals are marketed 
daily on the dais. I deny myself, 
something which I can give 
you. O hunger, don't go back.