There is sadness when the poem does not appear
on print. The sadness outgrows the present
and escapes drudgery.

There is sadness when silences of evenings
weigh heavily on times that are hurt.
Hurt because of what is happening.
What? When a child sees the dead of a road
is swallowed by breathing water.

There is sadness when a country re writes history
indefatigibly, unerroneously. A country which shares
burden of colonial discontent.

There is sadness when a friend's jealous looks at mine
when the poem is finally published.

The poem is actually published.
Sadness persists in aftermath.