Maa, you are an endless exhibition / of sweet-sour happiness
“The roads are too clean. The sun is too bright,” she thought.
Sumedha replied with annoyance, "I will make him say the words. It's so simple, 'Apni kemon achhen, bhalo?' Why can't he say it?"
A walkway through the crystal-clear lies
justice—where is justice?
Where voices unite, a chorus strong, / Demanding justice, righting wrong
This is a garden, these are my petals; this is my armoring plant
I've seen love/ Rolling down from a mother's eyes/ As she picks her lean child, bathed in innocent blood
go further than/ what the hills have seen/ through their ice pick scars
I'm tired of living with this nagging thought that we'll cross paths someday, /You and I
Do you want my hands/ Will they be enough to keep you warm
You have made ice out of my heart;/ we were once nothing–you brutalise me
“Stop mocking me, Atif! I am telling you there is something here.”
Words were never my greatest strength/ But the arsonist's child will read them
The only way they chose to do this was probably written or imprinted in our genes–a wild frenzy of carnal expressions filled their faces.
Years later, when I would no longer live in my parents' room and grow to have my own,/ I would disregard all the hours I had spent by the window staring at beetles hiding.
That was the first time in my life I’d smelled charred meat. I could tell it was different from the kind you’re supposed to eat, and my mother had to hold me as I threw up violently on the side of the street.
For once, can love look like a Sunday morning; filled with warmth, calmness and motionless?
What happens when your desire Lies in being alive?
