Khairlanji. The darkness of humanity percolates into corners over the skins of the mother and her daughter, those sons, the father.

The darkness of the witching hour. Indigestible truths consumed in brittle cognizance.

When history has reasons and explanations.

Genocidal waves. Discrimination waves. Feministic waves.

Blind rage of the immeasurable... appropriation of pain.

Khairlanji can be explained away, rationalized, reasoned with.

Like the light kissing the cheeks of another morning of other lives –

when we held cappuccino cups and the sun smelt

into a wealthy smile. The ferris wheel of souls. Khairlanji: Casablanca.

Hathras and Havana.

One life asked questions - the other had to answer and sometimes

that answer was in dark quietness.

If all lives were a tale of anguish between its acts,

when was the life to feel the light,

over anguished skin?

Which life was an interval?

caesurae,

a blink?

Water wheel - the stops at those stations where electricity had never reached.

Auschwitz.

One life in Hathras.

The other thinking of it.

compost, last stage -

darning the patchwork

to the zillionth hour