Leaves crashing into the teacups of colors
Air is settling down
Animals slumbering and abused in the city
While accidents were making love with life
I was asked to sing
When my voice was raped by generations of violence
I was asked to sing.
I sang.
I still fight with the teacups, the colors
The Love who is diseased and quiet and dead (maybe)
It’s the era of stigmas and shame and slaughter
I fight with the anatomy of my body
The frozenness of it whispers –
I cannot hear.
The abstractions fail,
As if a cloud is rejected by the sky.
The corpses walking on the pavements
I look into their eyes
They speak
I cannot hear.