In the monsoon, I walked colonised streets trying to befriend a city, forged fields and bright street lights, they often vanished inside my eyes to see happy children on beaches; glass ceilings shattering to find a sky, that broke down abruptly to weep on my shoulders. I swam in the rain only to meet those children at the beach. They roofed me under white curtains, for the Witch might try to grab me, plait my hair and take me back to her hall of circus.
Every flower, every breeze, every wounded bird in a city are part of a folklore where minstrels live, they all sing me back to beaches.