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My City, Gen-Next, Slammed

Worn Mask

This nose I put on with it’s horrible crook that is ugly. It is hideous but given a gift from the man before me and the man before him.
By Adwiteeya Shiwakoti

Photo Courtesy: Agencies


This nose


I put on with it’s horrible crook that is ugly.


 It is hideous but given


a gift from the man before me


and the man before him.


 I wake up every morning with a sigh and look up


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at the dull morning reflection of light


reflected from our new-aged buildings.


Off the luxury sack and through the kitchen


door--I see the man. Whose nose worn proudly upon


his blank-faced canvas, it is his own.


This nose I wear in


all its curve that is


what it is.


It sits proudly


upon my blank-face canvas


it is my own paint and sign


that this lump is mine and the


mirror it greets peeking through


these weary eyes of mine that


recognize the girl. Whose face looks


outward toward the grey sky.


Another day in my wake and I reach out my arm.


I wear my nose.


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