A ten-rupee tarnished sun rains heat on Hauz Rani: the Afghan baker sweats over his hot stove; so far from home, this man– I think of Umar Khalid. Your shirt is robin blue– we buy a piece of bread.
Poems about the dark times.
A ten-rupee tarnished sun rains heat on Hauz Rani: the Afghan baker sweats over his hot stove; so far from home, this man– I think of Umar Khalid. Your shirt is robin blue– we buy a piece of bread.
You say that if an AI ever copied me, there’d be a smoky sun, or a lonely, moonlit dog– or a lizard or a snake, or even Amit Shah; it’d close with Umar Khalid or Sharjeel Imam. Yes, I should…