Morning in the Hills


in the porches
the children rattle
the empty plates
& their empty souls

in the damp kitchens
a giant loneliness slithers
inside the broken souls
of twisted housemaids

chewed faces walk
along the guerilla tracks
their guns pointing
towards the sky

ripping apart
the loneliness
with a barrage of
silent bullets

in the waves of the fog
ragged shoes scuttle
with the hush of
the morning mist

they have just
arrived home
with crimson red of
human blood

& a narrow victory

Twitter @bibek_writes


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