The days that were bore upon
From sunrise to sunset and forth
Caused the dark tone
‘Melanin is not to be blamed’
The skin adapted the biased outburst of sun
Wrinkles running deep, not forced
But, eventually become part of the character
Looks like the traces
Which are left when someone crawls in failure
To cross the desert
Eyes not shut but dives so deep
That until you follow them down
The belief is not conceived
Dreams and identity insignificant
Dry as the oldest well in the village.
Lips grouchy and glued to each other
That shall never open even if offered the drink of life
Ashamed to display
The rows of fallen teeths
And the rough and tasteless tongue.
Hairs on the face here and there
Ignorance not, but the zest is lost
Is something very scary in comparision
Of feeling good.
Barrenness is at its best display.