Father has returned from his office. Knives glitter in the hands of people in the street.
Father shuffles his papers. Before his death, they were of some use to each other.
Words, instead of dust, fall from his papers. Scatter on his shirt.
At a deserted crossroad, an old man sells peanuts all night long.
There is a gun in my brother’s hand. Father prevents him from stepping out of the house.
I hide behind the door and watch. Those people have reached our doorstep.
Widowed mother is busy cooking food.
Light from the flashing knives, falls on father’s trembling hands.
He screams out loud.
He’s afraid they may kill him.