Summer has imprinted crow’s feet under my eyes, .Yet I have aged only a quarter. .That’s was when .I dunked myself—starting with the crown of my head—into the ocean where The southern sun resides, to imprint upon my face its sheen, .rhythm of miracles, and to honour it wi
The air tasted of burnt sugar and broken vows–sweetness clinging to the char. It began with a whisper, then the slow, inevitable searing of what we believed was solid ground.
and for every grave / a firefly burns / and for every grave / Dhaka never learns
Scorching in a way the April sun never was. / Scorching in a way a fever never feels. / It wasn't just grief
Patience, like moss, that grows on red soil. Conversations with friends, like inadequate breakfast.
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
Summer has imprinted crow’s feet under my eyes, .Yet I have aged only a quarter. .That’s was when .I dunked myself—starting with the crown of my head—into the ocean where The southern sun resides, to imprint upon my face its sheen, .rhythm of miracles, and to honour it wi
The air tasted of burnt sugar and broken vows–sweetness clinging to the char. It began with a whisper, then the slow, inevitable searing of what we believed was solid ground.
and for every grave / a firefly burns / and for every grave / Dhaka never learns
Scorching in a way the April sun never was. / Scorching in a way a fever never feels. / It wasn't just grief
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
Patience, like moss, that grows on red soil. Conversations with friends, like inadequate breakfast.
It would rain in the rains / And the rest of this poem would be written by someone else
There’s a purgatorial break between these stretches …flaxen against the lights
