-for Shiv Kumar Hauling carts and vendors home, weary horses stop to drink from a bucket on the road at the edge of Saidulajab. They have no time to frisk or roam, just to quench and shake and blink, as they pull their heavy loads up the road by Saidulajab. What happens next, I do not know, except to say their clop and clink grows softer, softer, as they go southward from Saidulajab. There’s news of torture on my phone; some folks are treated worse, I think, than the beasts that pull and slow at the edge of Saidulajab.Comments closed
Poems about the dark times.