Like little boys racing against red-orange hues against dark, dark blue to spread the day’s news;
Your grief rots the decades old paint and the lakhri no one bothered to replace. Even across the road, it reeks of death.
Like little boys racing against red-orange hues against dark, dark blue to spread the day’s news;
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
