How many hairfalls do
you need this night and that
in combs and pipelines
to bald your emotions?
How many flowering cries
do you need throughout
the years in lanes and cities
to call it flood?
How many silences do
you need in between the woods
from the roots to the tip
to call it a dried desert?
How many hearts do
you need to engrave in stones
on the epitaphs in calligraphy
to call it a perennial river of death?
How many deserts do
you need to count the thorns
on my body and mark them
to call it a state of dryness?
How many sunsets do
you need to colour the city
crimson and wait for the dawn
to call it a bright ball of hope?
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