suffuse the rubble behind my grandfather’s garden where roses grew when we last promised to meet,
quick shadows nimble footed fall over the crusty runnels scribbling a hasty darkness taking all the color away
I like to think I am still there, in the alleyway behind as where it all happens mulling, to read or not, lines which lose meaning in the dark, earlier their crimson reminded me there is no rose red in Kashmir some noise (or quiet) later come - read the lines illegible, over me and you will know the only rose red in Gaza oozes from your heart to mine…
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