There are nights
when collective conscience howls
like old miseries
deep inside democratic dungeons
The executioner wipes his hand
and neatly folds a black hood
He has stopped breathing
The public can exult
Guests descend upon studios
in big cars and winter shawls
No registered mail arrives
in desolate apple orchards
We are a secret society now
where death, too, is classified
There are no graves
Memory, too, is hanged
Does life become extinct
when the soul has exited?
Someone ask the grand minister
why is moral conscience so thin?
© Sameer
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