Wednesday, December 09, 2009

Sin, unoriginal

The wind damp, cool, south-west
The mind ashen, like the widow’s sari, drying
The stone quartz, peeping out of the home earth to trip you
The dream, the battles, the ploughed earth, the blood.


The sky beaten cotton in the floating cold
The belt tight, the collar, tight
Marbles, heavy pockets.
The returning report card.

The skirt, underneath
The mind Black, stone, iron, chest
Bruised knees Bruised elbows
Fifty lashes on the back of a choking soul

City, petrolly
Indifferent, grime.

Never another morning

Mother, mother….

May the Light forgive you.

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