Strange Politics

Satish Verma

A soft, but me, 
black moon 
coming in bazaar. 
Will you sell me the dreams? 

Talking to grave silence 
before the rains. 
I will not plant 
marijuana in your eyes. 

O, ignorant prince, 
my mother had left a legacy. 
One should not sleep alone 
to become poor. 

I expect no applaud, 
no cheers. I am a passer-bye 
I have not killed