Trying to climb a small elevation to a rock, we bit the dust and scraped our palms.Before dawn we tried searching the fakir with a head cloth but the book of faces yielded none.
We then read a poet aunt’s nobody poem about a frog who tried to be somebody in a bog. We are in our bogs of blogs , trying to be somebodies till we are no bodies.
Aunts and nephews will be no bodies . All of monsoon we will croak from bogs and our blogs will dry up the first of summer.