شبنامه

 

News arrives in flashes
over the radio.
I try fixing the antenna
before the announcement –

Occupied, noise
death a, noise
encounter,
.

I weave a story.
Fill the noises with
cut outs from dailies –
permutations,
all of them.

It takes years.
And the news isn’t
still mine.
Words envy me
and, I despise them.

Perhaps, we will
look in the eye again,
when your truth
become mine.

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