My body is trapped in a heated room. 

Light shines from the ceiling. 

A leather sofa invites me 

To let my spine relax, 

But my heart runs  

To that river by the village 

That bridge made of leather thongs  

Rocking with the wind, 

That dusty yard where 

I was tied to a boulder while mama (...) > continue
 

      	 Amdo Sershul hoards his war stories, 

deals them out sparingly to passers by 

in their times of need. 

Empty your bowels, fill up with stories! 

It’s not exactly cheap. No. 

2 rupees for a piss, 5 for a shit, 

not what you would call cheap. 

But the stories have travelled far and 

they come from (...) > continue
 

      	 
You asked me if 

I still love to write 

I said, yes I do. 

But in that “Yes” 

Did you notice the quiet desperation? 

– of half-formed scribbles on notebook covers 

– the silent procession of my endless monologue  

dying to be heard above the roar of traffic.

I am told it may be fate 

That ties my (...) > continue
 

      	 This is how it will be. 

We will take a walk on concrete, not blue tiles. 

You will pretend to be disappointed. 

This will have the quality of a ritual.

In the morning the sun will fall from the sky, 

We will protect ourselves against its fire. 

It is not so unbearable but 

We have learnt to (...) > continue
 

      	 This year’s crop did not flower.

It was the lack of rain compounded by severe sunshine. 

The scythes curve in waiting, inviting rust and camouflage.

Meanwhile our hands, still in varying stages of growth, 

interlock, making a too-small cradle.

After the harvesting of such love, 

the heart (...) > continue
 

      	 Whistling of wind 

Messages from beyond 

I fail to decipher

Mist in the valley 

Memories of another time 

Fades into space

Moss on a wall 

A sign of decay 

We seldom see

Wasp in a room 

Bangs at windowpane 

Freedom is confined

Fish in a pond 

Floats with lotus petals 

Competing for the (...) > continue