to the angry mountains and sternest clouds,
possessing the charm of an ancient woman
and might of disabled gods -
"Monsieur, monsoon is not a good excuse for discipline
even an old serpent has a way of revenge
in the voids of modernity and garden of Eden."

if so, i agree that man shall learn
eventually, death is religion of life.
and then there are those
who distribute the pieces of expired progress
while i mock at them with the pamphlets of calamity
and in between the deceptive tunnel of truth
are well kept mortals, enshrined for destructive facility
and you, Mister remain aloof and green!

but when, in the fabled nature of religion
the poorest of poor come for disagreeable demands
likes of which are not polished with vocabulary
you bully them with sound and fire

and thus i shall complain to lord above
about the nature of the tip of your nose,
about the way the trees conspire with the air,
about the dance of death composed by the river,
about the evil army of endangered animals, birds and insects
about the misleading moon and the burner called Sun
about the little mistakes of man being rewarded
by the mythical daughters of Satan
as they churn the sea, the earth and whatever
in reach of their desires and thoughts

while the potion of life is else where,
somewhere in New Delhi or Gujarat
in an air conditioned room or mall
in front of television or mobile phone
in the name of Sonia Gandhi or Narendra Modi
or the national ghost of justice.