A Knife that bleeds, Chanting and Sowing Seeds, Blood from the impure, Who unsheathes for a cure. Each Stroke. Each Slice. Each Thrust. Shall Suffice. No need for rythm Frantic, out of beat. This is the Cure. Panacea for the Poet of War. Poem by Sanjeev ‘Cimeries’ Retnasingam(27.09.2021)

Names fortell, fortune forward.Names may tell, history unsavoured.But truthfylly…Name are names – Man maketh namesEnchanting it with theirs, burning in flamesPoem by Sanjeev ‘Cimeries’ Retnasingam(23.09.2021)