This Kind Of Time Poem by Satish Verma

What noun was combative,
enduring the poison, when
you were subject of―
the history, which will
remain unwritten?

The war was on, in the
night of terror. You cannot
reach the extremeties, for the
sake of modesty. Violence
sits in speech, in dirty words.

The flesh needs new blood,
and blood demands the bone
of justice that will not―
conceive mutilation. You become
benevolent in spreading the fear.