Andhra Pradesh, '24

Whatever your hand touches, turns to gold.

Whatever my hands touch is rainbowgrass.

Minerva, bullets fly off so fast over my head,

I'm breathing in whole mountains-

I'm breathing in women,

I'm breathing in dead deer,

Whatever my hands touch becomes a yellow leaf.

Every narrow alleyway spell out your name,

Armies of red ants march on my chest-

I sink.

Whatever you touch Minerva, turns to a cold river.

I sink.