It doesn't rain here; everywhere is sultry— dwelling houses, homes, alleys, footbridges…. everyone is busy busy with languaging grief busy with dressing wounds you're lucky if a man piggybacks you when you become weary because there's a pandemic called misfortune chavelling the nation. the news says our president suspends Twitter in the country: we are suffocating he just shut the eyes of the world against us. who will listen to our sultry tears? i think God because only him sees through closed doors and we want him to pour songs of joy into our oesophagus?
