You hold onto paper hands that
fall to dust the moment I touch them.
These structures are shivering.
You pile blocks over blocks,
go higher and higher.
The sky is a hue of blue you
cannot fathom into art.
Or buildings.
Only your heart.
But mine is failing.
These unending lights,
This gloss,
This mask,
It is not real.
It is not helping.
These buildings grow higher and I
Shrink lower.
This is no metropolis.
Fatema Bhaiji
