Your grief rots the decades old paint and the lakhri no one bothered to replace. Even across the road, it reeks of death.
August, marked with dying things. Summer’s end, / My freedom spent
Your grief rots the decades old paint and the lakhri no one bothered to replace. Even across the road, it reeks of death.
I feel my rage, ma, a living thing;/ A beast, caged, like me
