This year, again, I fancied looking beyond the dustshowers.
The red from rear of the traffic, the clammy hint of moisture on the windshields and the little hands that keep on striking window glasses.
Lovely little hands with screeching voices. Dark, bruised and beautiful on the glass plates.
Glasses that divide dreams. Glasses that are called brittle. Glasses that are quaintly like unattended time.
They had tiny rings tied to threads on their fingers. Blue and green and yellow. Round page-markers that they called 'ignorance'.
I wondered what they meant.
"Ignorance does not take effort, dada, ignoring does. Place this in your books." They shut their mouths, like they shut their hands, the wind blew in, mildly, sprinkling dust over shut shutters of shops.