Category: Poetry

He was a tad more than six, an innocent lad who sold icicles, as he desperately tried to fix life’s acerbity, their abject poverty— freedom from fate’s fiendish jinx. He only had his mother, both her legs amputated due
On this page, I exhibit the fauvist mother gazein thirsty gouache strokes that couldn’t be undone.But my heart hides the aches of a peasant paintbrushwhose meager lines, couldn’t be made visible.   On it, my father’s nose and skin

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