Hark! / Busy work of Hands
but i can't. i cannot be bothered to find / meaning behind the faults in my father's eyes
Maa, you are an endless exhibition / of sweet-sour happiness
I heard they are changing the dictionary.
When the streetlights flicker, think of every doe-eyed child that the city swallows
A walkway through the crystal-clear lies
Irrespective of the ambivalence that marks Metaphysical poetry of the 17th century, Selim marvels us with his choice of words and precision of utterance.
But talks of harmony flood your nose. / Harmony, harmony, harmony—you want it so bad, / and so you put words in our mouths
My father speaks in a dismantled language that goes up in smoke.
but i can't. i cannot be bothered to find / meaning behind the faults in my father's eyes
Hark! / Busy work of Hands
Maa, you are an endless exhibition / of sweet-sour happiness
I heard they are changing the dictionary.
When the streetlights flicker, think of every doe-eyed child that the city swallows
A walkway through the crystal-clear lies
Irrespective of the ambivalence that marks Metaphysical poetry of the 17th century, Selim marvels us with his choice of words and precision of utterance.
But talks of harmony flood your nose. / Harmony, harmony, harmony—you want it so bad, / and so you put words in our mouths
the bullet hole/ in my brother's chest/ unfolds like a pandora's box
My father speaks in a dismantled language that goes up in smoke.