By Saleha Sehgol; Edited by Yaron Gu

Tabula rasa
Or back to square one?
That mask,
Second skin.
Seasoned hecklers,
Second season.
Peak hour drones,
A haunting threnody of cicadas and mynas.
To every crevice this hollowness reaches –
Not quite, for it fails to appease the beaches.  

Crimson fury dribbles and spits
How are the bearings still not right?
You are a sieve,
Through which all reason drains.
A baby born,
With first hugs and coos
Through vacuous screens. 
Mothers, brothers
Clad in scrubs
The curve mounts its uphill ascent,
As do silver hairs.

Dusted and blowdried
Another walk,
For good measure
Fingers of banana bread fumes,
Scalding and noxious on raw flesh
I find new breakfast companions
In the cockatoos that visit
Their window taps morph into a dirge,
And I am unsure if
They mock
Or wish to satiate the void.

These were meant to be the years
For now it seems
That yesterday, today and tomorrow
Are tethered into an eternal string,
In the name of an obscure future
There begs the question,
When we switch on our cameras,
Can we switch on humanity too?

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