From A Still Place Leaden With Dirt

By Uma Sharan

Days sit in silence, they never complain. They don’t turn to me anymore and I don’t cry to them anymore. I don’t close my eyes, there is no need as when I look around there’s nothing I see. Once in a while when I walk and hear the floor Creek, feel the dirt on my feet, shall I weep and weep and weep over the still

place laden with dirt where my gloom I keep. It’s a shy almirah I don’t open, it knows everything. It has my fallen hair and my rotten teeth. Once it told me “your mother made an art piece, she cries pain, lives like a maid, soon she Will fade”. Since that day I sit in silence and I never complain.

By Uma Sharan