The Black Argument Poem by Satish Verma

Driving the moment
you swoop on the clock
expanding the grief of
blue mind.

You said,
I want to know the name
of spilled blood on the dirt road
to freedom of thoughts. The noun
was more repugnant than the verb.
The crowd was becoming
restive.

You cannot raise your children
by feeding them with your hands
and making them sleep in your bed.
Where were the books? the scraps
and waste?

You could have identified the code
of forgotten gods.