Everyone is listening. The simplest word has this dreaded habit of being heard. Ears hard of hearing throw up a falsifying realm. Reverberations run through standstill and stagnated impressions, expressions and impaired trysts. And everyone is silent. Slit throats talk about the poetry, dagger writes on them. The world bears less resemblance to its poetry and more to its throats. But yet it longs to see and meet a pair of eyes which has seen its own tears. The simplest word travels along.
