there is a man
whose voice pins the room.
he sits at a café,
the naked bean.

hands tremble,
camera bag hangs low,
news clippings spill across the table.
he whispers to no one—
stories of lies overheard,
a story that could endanger his family.

dust threads his veins,
pressing against bone—
the ossicles in his ears
still ringing with what he heard.
pollution and corruption
sound the same at this frequency.

minutes drift.
his words gather at the edges
of the notebook,
crowding the margins
like they know what's coming.

elsewhere:
a wife curses her phone,
sweat fogs distant lenses.
men linger with steady breath,
children hurried to bed.

they carry him to the hospital—
broad shoulders lifting his dust-bound body,
veins dimmed with residue.

corridors white, strained.
nurses pass, faces pale,
hands rinsed, charts checked.
drawers of pills, overtaxed bodies.

even in silence
they observe him:
veins threaded with dust,
bearing the burdens of all—
bones carrying truths
no one dares to speak.