WreTcheD

i sauntered down our old town. now altered to a cemetery, the garden we used to play. two, three, four....&... houses, were wrecked. and the people i left, were asked to make mansions with the skulls of innocent men. 

then, it was a garden full of ripped mangoes. now, a cemetery; a black one with hills. i could remember writing my name on the middle tree that drops juice,  went to taste its horny, but found blood answering its sugary name.


i then met an old man, & he said the hills which i ride, are the graves of my townmen. and the dew which falls at dawn, is no more water, but the tears of chained, raped young women. 

God, onto you i hinge, give me back my name. the dialect i used to speak, is now the language of death. for now, even my name is another name of grief.