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
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