Maybe the pigeons know, standing on the doors of their tiny homes, A pair I could see, one massaging the other's neck, Stiff on a weekday morning. Inside, a community adorns the walls; There goes another, carrying a piece to bring home. Would their fathers and their father's father know, Only if I could ask them, If I could make the meaning out from their song, But I sit here in silence, Making peace with my ignorance after all, As the tall buildings grow taller, And these steps taciturn.
I sit I slide down Shift myself underneath the blanket To keep my feet warm After a while it gets hot My sweater My socks They keep rolling down From the blanket To the bed, to the floor I shiver A pair of cold feet touches mine I push, I kick I shift to the other side Sister, why do you always have your feet so cold? Close your eyes And it’s dark It is cold, it is December Shall I blame it? And sleep until lunch
The sun sets while the loyal footsteps of a shadow enveloped in a drape of rudhira walks down from one corner of the house to another in obedience. Multiple jobs and multiple voices call out her name every second, asking for a lifelong performance. Happiness in the smiles of others, the belief that is carried; ingratitude is ignored. Selling pieces of herself for their sake, vaulting the tears in a closet and wishing for the dawn to come sooner. The image of her likeness stands up, and cuts the cramp of her sheets of toil, metamorphosing it into a modern art, walking down the streets under the sun of liberation.
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