the way that glowing lamps die in our hands like a rose for emily planted on a famished road punctures all promises that the sun will rise again. & like crimson in the skies, the hidden star that we seek to see turns dimmer than half of a yellow sun. here we are; meshed in dilapidated histories, jagged lacerations & a wonder-world nostalgia; as though in one hundred years of solitude. there was a country where three brothers promised every good thing will come, before it all turned a play of giants & women buried bones of starved children under hungry grasses – painting head-stones in petals of blood…. and you ask, if it’s all because the beautiful ones are not yet born in 6 decades or we lost the womb of all prophecies to the african saga…. wait! up nepa! Grandpa once prophesied with the eye of the earth, singing an antithesis of few white things that happened to our black horizons & our world would never remain the same until our flesh & bloods are black no more – like the labyrinth between prose, play and poetry titled in quotidian poverty, pandemic quarantine & coordinated protests pummeled in pogroms. But this last chapter is a walk to freedom covered in red.