That year’s cold was strange
Our thoughts were frozen
Our eyes white washed…
We started fearing our own cold questions
Some elders felt necessary
That more of us must burn as wood-stock
Until the cold is gone
And dissenting voices were silenced
We kept burning our own kind
It reached a point when
‘Our words grasped each other for warmth
And suddenly started to rhyme…’
This year we feel the same cold
People are burning as wood stock
And words are dreaming
to rhyme again
together…
November 2023
On wars happening around us.
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