The Narrow Gullee
Walled Off By Brick Walls
Of The Madarsa
Desecrated By Graffiti
Sprayed With Betel Spit
Over-Stenched Gutters
Dung Cakes Like Peeping Toms
Behind Garbage Heaps
The Sudden Left Turn
The Familiar Bump
A Breath Held
For Centuries
A Hasty Look At
The Dusty Trunk
A Shriveled Form
Behind The Tree
A Stifled Scream
Of What Might
Have Been