Present

Life passes by, I speak things

That matters to my heart

What I felt when I didn’t speak up

The crimson hue, the poetic cradle

Children’s hands soft as muds

Pools where I bathed once 

I belong to my memories of present

Car windows randomly come by

The buildings are yellow and streets

That speak of monologues

Of people and politics and the rusty mirror

Nails that are scary of partition blood

I mug prosaic utterances of past

I breathed that I am I am.