I counted ribs on his concertina chest
bones protruding as if chiselled
by a sculptor's hand of famine.
He looked with glazed pupils
seeing only a bun on some sky high shelf.
The skin was pale and taut
like a glove on a doctor's hand.
His tongue darted in and out
like a chameleon's
snatching a confetti of flies.
O! child,
your stomach is a den of lions
roaring day and night.
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