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  • They were singing songs of mourning.
    I shot this during my grandma's funeral.
    She died in the big city noise.
    She was brought back here.

    I wrote this the last time I was with her here, 6 years back in the quiet, quiet. Pinned to my wall, since.
    .
    .
    .
    'Ants with barbed feet crawled,
    the sound of spices being crushed in the kitchen.
    Metal ringing out through the recesses of the roof,
    she stood barefoot

    Flutter
    like the flame of a clay lamp in a fast wind.'
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