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I write this poem with arrows piercing, knives slicing and
Egrets nibbling voraciously at my tongue tied like a market
Thief undergoing the pangs of jungle justice. Believe me
When I say that my home is a place for scalding metaphors.
A woman carries her country on her back and the city boys
Squander their fading destinies on castles in the air. We all
Meet in the place of prayer because we were told that our tears
Are trails leading God to our predicament. Tears morphed into
Bullets in my dreams; sharp and shiny. And I tell God that these
Tears are not jewelry. Their ruins sit at the heart of my home. An
Avalanche from the mountains. And I tell you again that this home
Of mine is a mischief/milkmaid; milking tears from citizens