Aandal’s Anguish

Since I can feel the pulse of the morning to tell the fever, you say that I can also grow wings, dislodge the gate that has not opened in years, to watch dust fly like dunes in a desert. You know there are no deserts in my land , only the rain forests and the peacocks whose feathers he wears on his hair, sandal paste that the women rub on his body as sensations pool over, from depths that they measure with the grains of dust trembling on his skin.


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