Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

Three quarters of the way into my name, 

there’s Roshan, roshni, light; that seems to me right, 

a silver of bangles on a wrist, round mirror chips  

embroidered into the hem of my clothes, 

my white skin seen tiny times over, 

sequins sewn into my childhood. 

This is my light; a cloth weighted 

with five bright beads over an English lamp. 

And me now, turning on these lights in the dusk, 

move still with a shake of bells at my feet, 

not quite heard, the light not quite seen.