Finding the Last Piece




As I gradually transcend to what seems

like a light at the end of this dark tunnel,

I start to wonder: “Once something

gets old, what do you do with it?

A lot of people and the spaces have

grown old here, as if breathing their

last few breaths. Gone are the days

when these things were priceless,

I grew with it, I will let it go, they say”

I brushed past a spray painted

graffiti : each memory you make is

a page in my book”

You know what would I like?

For some of us to be able to find

our place here. That man, who didn’t

feel the need for a roof on his head,

and his dog. That grafittist and his

thoughts. All the dhabhas and the dhaba

workers and the people who come to have

tea and cheap food in them. The office

employees, who step out to smoke or

catch some winter sun. The small shop

owners who are trying to work out a future

for their businesses. Possibilities of trees,

maybe books, maybe reading spaces,

maybe groups of people singing for the

pleasure of it. Possibilities of the migrant

workers singing his songs to people who

earn differently, eat and think differently

from him.


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