A line somewhere on the wall,
an angel monstrous in shape, entangled.
A number here on the window frame
whose multiplication partner-number
is written somewhere in the other room.
A clunker runs over this almirah
without tyres, on absolute trust.
A pink watch on my arm
with no hands
embracing an infinite time.
I even carried a dwarf giant on my cheek
for many days.
Lines, dots, doodles, smileys
numbers, cars, shapes -
the world is paper for children,
a single sheet folding out into
walls, frames, almirahs
wndows, surfaces, skin.
May they never grow to know
that walls are bricks and cement
meant for heads and hurts,
that windows are wooden
opening to an indifferent world,
that cars run on oil and exploitation,
that skin is a bruised abyss,
that numbers are monetary,
that the adult world is a world
of razor tongues and rumours,
of pain and separation,
of sharp edges and gunpowder
with thousand ways of communication
that we have chosen not to.
