It is a miracle, isn’t it? In a cluttered space with books, with the marijuana of remembrances, with misplaced rage, the exiled poet keeps birthing poems. Worn-torn memories reopen their scarred flesh. They bleed raw with coagulated chunks of rape, maiming, bombing in a motherland fresh with familiar faces, and recycled anguish. The heart races back in time, all those[Read More...]
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