If you don’t have a poem
in lostness then words
in interplay will make
a hole, somewhere a wound
will not heal, only crying birds and a whispering wind will encircle skies lacerated with shots of the enemy. This is the world we live in even as we watch Republic Day on the tele, news has come that some gun-toting people are hovering with the wind, threating the sky, holding ramparts,so that poetry is blinded into a bleeding dog panting for a little water, so that the sky will not frown, and the hills not lament,
death of a poem.
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