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WHAT TO SAY TO THE BOY THAT ASKS FOR THE REMNANTS OF RAIN
here, we build houses with decayed, unburied bodies that forgot the other new ways to breathe in the land where flowers, too, are names given to the family of bullets that haunt the bodies that refuse to fall. see, maybe, when the sun's eyes become weary and darkness wears the crown, a masked face might ask if the graveyard is full, so he would unearth those that got their halves blessed to be buried in a grave as a way to shelter the remnants of his fallen body; an escape from being wholly flooded by the flooding water that holds the melanin of blood. you see, here, when children grow beards, they metamorphose into night heroes, visiting home after home, burying the mouths of their brothers with notes only to have the ballots thumbed on their strange rooms. today, let me tell you what to say to the boy that always asks for the remnants of rain, tell him here is a land turned to a Kalahari—a new desert formed by our unploughed prayers and burning wishes. if you like, snuff the monster out of your mouth and tell him about the remnants of the rain who could only be seen when we grind the satanic dots between what our mouths utter. tell him it could only wet our withered bodies when we bury the things hovering the arena in our craniums; things that are synonymous to building sandhouses together after the rain. such things beyond things like he gave us poetry when our eyes were searching for rain, or he taught us how to pray under the roofs where angels that carry in their mouth hymns sung from the heaven, stay. tell him you mean such things beyond what our hearts could feel. and the remnants of the orphaned rain is lying here between our ribs, sieving the dust trying to blur the eye's of this night would born.