It doesn't rain here;
everywhere is sultry—
dwelling houses,
homes, alleys,
footbridges….
everyone is busy
busy with languaging grief
busy with dressing wounds
you're lucky if a man
piggybacks you when you become
weary
because there's a pandemic
called misfortune chavelling
the nation.
the news says our president
suspends Twitter in the country:
we are suffocating
he just shut the eyes of the
world against us.
who will listen to our sultry tears?
i think God
because only him sees through closed
doors
and we want him to pour
songs of joy into our oesophagus?