The procession ends near
the fives streets crossing.
They talk, shout, and then
after the slogan slows down
the leaders orate, makes Tim
sweat, and nervous he shakes
his head. Soon the listeners
not one with the piazza and mass
can hear the words they fight against.
The dark and white words, erased
by one and stressed by another,
the smoke you need, comrade, and
the world doesn’t ashen the sky.
The slate holds the flight skill
of the starlings. Tim shakes his head.
They will understand the grey
between the amber and the onyx.
They should stop talking. Some songs
will be great. I grin, open a random line
from the newspaper, and begin singing.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
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