On the hay stack lies my body
brought from the shooting range.
Brain dead, I exit, to watch
the blood drenched earth. Foot prints of eternity.
Window is shut. No light enters.
In tiers, the cadavers are lying in a heap
of stinks. Violence has brought the perfect
insult to bubbling life.
A naked truth sweeps the floor, burns
the statements of filthy peers. I was
young with small eyes, full of water,
in the face of crime, looking at the stars.
Death will walk on payments now.
History will ooze in spurts.
Submitted by Satish Verma.