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In the end, when the world has taken the full hush of me, It will be said that there had been quite enough of me.

I swore that I would embalm all the mangled bodies But in the city of deformities you ask way too much of me.

I am only a placeholder in this maelstrom of activity When I am not around you will not speak much of me.

As a child I hurled prayer beads at the windows of mosques. God trembled at my raised fists, thinking it quite tough of me.

Street trash covered in saffron like neglected tchotchkes. Drenched in exotica, I suppose that was the bluff of me.

The pull of nostalgia leans on me with oppressing weight. But in future retrospection, it will have lost the crutch of me.


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