The teabags look at the boiling water,

My mind takes its place.

A pit of fire,

A jar of lost winters,

A Spanish restaurant known for its calamari,

A winter that led only to calamity.

A silent observer,

The pain, the stain that Dhaka brought me.

The teabags observe silently

The kettle is singing

And I am done with it —

Done with the boiling water,

The burning mind,

The morbid tongue,

The wildly innocent eyes.

They put away those cups of tea,

Imprisoned them.

Kept them confined in locks of lost hair.