Photographs
Mama is grief, the one clinging onto a portrait size photograph. She is the photograph’s cold eyes, the dimness of…
Mama is grief, the one clinging onto a portrait size photograph. She is the photograph’s cold eyes, the dimness of…
I pack my troubles in a sigh and stretch them out of bed in half sleepy eyes. I flick on…
It is midnight and this could be the last stop before the last stop. At the previous stop, I checked…
Everyone is embroiled in a clatter of pursuits. Trucks with bloated drivers blare horns. Motorbikes with scrawny young men precariously…
It is the unexpected intruder who cares that the girl is in that state. Her skirt is muddied and ripped…
Crisp dry leaves on the backs of dead twigs rustle and roll on rusty iron sheets. It is a discordant…