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Crimson

I am surprised how they can be crimson
Around the streets paved with koilas and dust
I am surprised how the streets can be crimson;
Aren’t they supposed to be dull grey and dusty?

When I gaze at the sky
In this monsoon when the rain stops, when the sky is clear
In the late afternoon the crimson is most distinct
In several hues and shades
The crimson is most distinct
The crimson is not a tomato
The crimson is not a ripe apple
The crimson is not a ruby stone.

How can the streets be crimson?
The streets are not a tomato,
The streets are not a ripe apple,
The streets are not a ruby stone;
The streets are where we are at war for peace;
The streets are where we are shamed for justice;
The streets are where we are chained for freedom;
Life is no tomato, no ripe apple, no ruby stone;
I’m not sure about the crimson skies anymore.


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The Iron Lady

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