I call it grace, if a girl's chaste wall before turning five

remains unscathed, for the womb of this land

breeds paedophiles in thousands.

 

I call it grace, if my neighbor's son from an errand

returns without paying ransom to secure his soul

for this land is a saner nest for child rustlers.

 

I call it grace, if no household mourns before dusk

for elegy every second surges from the mouth of houses.

 

I call it grace, if no one, before noon

is tweeted missing, by the birds on Twitter

if no mutilated cadaver is discovered beside the bush

sprawling along the hem of highways, before the end of the week.

 

I will call it grace, again, again, and again

if my right hand concludes this poem

with its fingers, untampered.