Sunday, September 18, 2011


We are hanging by the trees. A frail, slight attachment. Grated over time. On the hill-tops, we live. Not your regular tiled roof. Naah none of that. We have white, hoary hair of an old woman above our heads. We refer to them as clouds in our language.

As far as my eyes can travel, I see my village. Mind, however, time-travels. Where there was green, now there is brown. The people from the plains came with their phallic machines and raped the ground. They blasted through her honour. That quarry site is now all that remains.


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