I’ve abandoned my dusty life
My granny is all alone
In the street corners of
Bothaville;
No one can tell how she slaves
As she sometimes forgets the bar-green soap
That she also uses as the bath soap.
Her cracked hands made by thorns she collects
To feed us every now and then.
She has her own story to tell but since
She doesn’t know how powerful memory is
I challenged myself to be her philosopher.

My friends have forgotten my face
My former school’s walls are left cracked
And marks made by these black hands of mine!
Marks that make the sun weep each time
I take breath.
My lungs feeling betrayed as I often lose count of breaths I take.
Even if I challenged myself to not lose count.
Marks that stops the rotation of the earth
Each time
I take step on the floor of this dry earth
The dusty memories that I’ve encountered in
My life,
Everything looked so new
Everything looked so different
But the soil looked old and red,
Red enough to hide the blood
That is shed down on the floor
Where our parents work as slaves
Just to earn few cents as rewards
It plants the idea of sowing seeds
To feed our pot-bellied youth
I could still smell the mud on
My granny’s floor.
Even though she tried to tiled it up.
Even food smelled dusty.