His bloody coughs remind him of this every few moments.

Public finances – battered by the Great Recession

I am writing with hands that are bruised because I fell down.

Several others would apparently have been contacted, removed, bruised.

I remember the refugees from the partition of India.

Another day, another crime and another shaken family.

There were bruises on her cheeks—the marks of Starrett’s fingers.

Then I continue to chit chat while my plumped feathers settle.

The victims come beaten, confused and profoundly affected.

Our thought go to those bereaved and traumatised families.

erected in a cemetery, like ten frostbitten candles

Peaceful roads, simple houses that are a little bruised.

They all drop at the feet of the astonished women.

The moon cast silvery light on the gravestones and the statues of angels.

How else would these forsaken women earn a living?