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
Time, heavy as a thousand suns combined,/ Bends mothers, smaller than the ones they bore,
Your tea in the kettle, piping hot water/ No sugar, so that you can really taste the tea on your tongue
This universe’s heart is hollow now for humanity has died inside it.
Back at home, food used to narrate stories. Here, food does not travel far to the nooks and crannies of Velutha’s heart; it only reaches his stomach well enough to leave him looking healthy and strong.
The hush of dawn and the whispered breeze,/ that caresses nature's resting face
She stands in front of the canvas and stares.
the moon watches over you, when whales beach themselves, the tides wash them back home; the moon looks down
Sameer’s mother looked at her husband before quickly stepping in and attempting to defuse the situation. “You know it’s just a heritage thing. We’re not really Biharis".
After our spiritual journey to the Old City and West Bank, the realities of life caught up to us.
News from Gaza rips the heart open/ Idlib is burning too
