when I lost my temper
for a faulty chain of my bag
I befriended verbal clash against mother
uttering profanity with ear-piercing squabble
it is known that silence is a latecomer
because situation applauds rage and suffering
and a shameful lunatic frame I could see—who
would be ready to smell this oppressing element?
Only my mother? The only women who manages my heart?
it is known that peace travels very slow
because situation chokes the heart
and then it subdues the embryonic stage
to plough the lands of love again
a late arriver’s fall into mother’s lap—
immodestly roused in a poem:
botched up smell of masculinity