And I realised: / even in the line to hell, / waiting for punishment, / we'd still reach for chanachur. / We'd still find comfort / in the crunch of survival
It would rain in the rains / And the rest of this poem would be written by someone else
Something you may... You may never find again.
My love always arrived wrapped in silence, wrapped in dust. But that was childhood.
We will make meaning out of the holes in the sun
There’s a purgatorial break between these stretches …flaxen against the lights
I am not a single name. Not a single wound.
Grey chips of rough cement Rust rubble all around,
This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,
Skin sticky with perspiration from a long month of June
I skip talking to myself for hours / The “me time”, before going to bed
It was not a question one would ask as he did/ With his round glasses at the end of his nose
i quite like the smell of cloves, even more when they're burning/ turning charcoal in front of my eyes
This is a garden, these are my petals; this is my armoring plant
Shut shut let me shut my eyes, for even though / the dawn confiscating the dusk’s shades of greys arrives, / there is no place for me
Sweat beads upon my brow, my shirt begins to cling/ The vile monster's tendrils reach out, adhesive
I've seen love/ Rolling down from a mother's eyes/ As she picks her lean child, bathed in innocent blood
like a caterpillar cocooned into its shell undergoing metamorphosis—growing up sneaks up to you whether you want it or not
We have built a civilisation / of sky-high buildings, / of concrete cities, / of disconnected communities
