Glamorous lightweight raindrops  from the October sky keep 

As if playing a game of chess / Still the world waits for the next dawn

but i can't. i cannot be bothered to find / meaning behind the faults in my father's eyes

Hark! / Busy work of Hands

Maa, you are an endless exhibition / of sweet-sour happiness

I heard they are changing the dictionary.

When the streetlights flicker, think of every doe-eyed child that the city swallows

A walkway through the crystal-clear lies

Irrespective of the ambivalence that marks Metaphysical poetry of the 17th century, Selim marvels us with his choice of words and precision of utterance.

But talks of harmony flood your nose. / Harmony, harmony, harmony—you want it so bad, / and so you put words in our mouths

the bullet hole/ in my brother's chest/ unfolds like a pandora's box

My father speaks in a dismantled language that goes up in  smoke. 

justice—where is justice?

Where voices unite, a chorus strong, / Demanding justice, righting wrong

‘You must bury / yourself / Every three days’ / She said, / ‘Corpses are of / No use

Your grief rots the decades old paint and the lakhri no one bothered to replace. Even across the road, it reeks of death.

I inhale the luxurious scent / of squelched earth / smoking under the sodden leaves

Echoes of your voice ring in my ears / As the world turns scarlet in front of my eyes

I feel my rage, ma, a living thing;/ A beast, caged, like me

From every direction strong torrents meet Collide, counter, and begrudgingly recede.