The Red
She bleated at my rhymes. I picked her droppings. She was nowhere, the morning of Eid-al-adha. Father returned, hauling the bulk in his arms. A stray dog followed, sniffing. Her… Read more »
Monthly Archives: November 2017
She bleated at my rhymes. I picked her droppings. She was nowhere, the morning of Eid-al-adha. Father returned, hauling the bulk in his arms. A stray dog followed, sniffing. Her… Read more »