A stale wind breezes over my face, hungover
And weary from years of rage and aloneness.
Every bit of this body withers, aches many winters.
Every breath, sometimes burnt petrol, sometimes charcoal, ash.
I try to breathe in green memories of my liquid past.
They disappear half way. Sometimes they freeze into a single photograph. No cold mountain breeze to surround our love
No wide paddy fields to run aimlessly towards the horizon that called upon the dusk. No hay over our clothes, no mud, no grass over our shirts.
Even the water now tastes like responsibilities.

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Goirick Brahmachari
Goirick Brahmachari is a writer based in Dilli. ‘For the Love of Pork’ is his debut collection of poems. His poems and articles have appeared in North East Review, Open Road Review, Nether, TFQM, Coldnoon: Travel Poetics, Raedleaf Poetr, The Hindu The Reading Hour and Economic and Political Weekly among others.


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