A Poetrification performance at Sitara Studios

'In India, in twenty fifteen. The earth picks at its scabs, old wounds made fresh, children crawl backward like crabs/to the cradle, no light, no progress, only a cleansing of the unclean/ as defined by the Prime Minister's fringe masters. His beard drips grammar, this morning, and though his fist, pumps properly for the camera, he has lost faith in his tryst, his destiny, his own words make him cringe'.