my poems make me sad.

You reflect the times
my body leaves the wound marks on sand.

Again I had gone to my tattered home
to sleep under the moon.

There was only a small window.
I would look at the stars whole night –

to conceive and jump into a lake
of synthetic fathers and hired wombs.

The grieving faith now holds you responsible.
O god, in reverse order, become a man.

Submitted by Satish Verma.

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