We all know
We are on the street
Muddy village paths
On the move
To the centre of things.
The margin is unfamiliar like any wild flower
Unseen and not named yet
Though we are struggling
In our long walk to the spotted discourse
We stay together
We unburden our pains and sorrows
Of our long history and associated memory.
Are we there to record them?
Will we consider them as important?
Can a rickshaw puller speak out
The untold legacy of subjugation?
S
I
L
E
N
C
E
People exchange series of lies.
Promises are forgotten
As a method in madness.
