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

Hark! / Busy work of Hands

It feels like only two days ago that my dadu was still here, worrying I’d always be too short like her.

teardrops trickling down / the valley / mingling with the static— / hollow waves of Kaptai lake

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

His final sentiments were etched into the table before he succumbed to his final rest: "I found solace in the mountains. They demanded nothing and remained steadfast by my side."

My train just started / I found my seat / When she called me

As I turn back, my eyes catch sight of what appears to be hands, but of a tan, furry kind, feeling its way inside the sliding doors

It is perhaps not an overstatement to say that humans are, at their core, wanderers.

The night smoke carries out the riots of innocents,

Rose-tinted glasses are just red, and I have painted myself with the color now that the hollow of your eyes isn’t there, now that 

“The roads are too clean. The sun is too bright,” she thought.

Sumedha replied with annoyance, "I will make him say the words. It's so simple, 'Apni kemon achhen, bhalo?' Why can't he say it?"

Somehow, the taste of tear gas

A walkway through the crystal-clear lies

the way there was complete silence when you lied for the first time. You opened your eyes

Geronimo rushed inside the hole coughing, somehow managing to shut the door behind him. His mother Telapatra grabbed her son, hugging her tight for an instant before smacking him across the back. “How many times did I tell you not to go out at this hour?” cried Telapatra.

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?