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A quarterly international literary journal


/ Poetry /

from Machilipatnam

I sweep the yesterday's leaves

and burn

but a sense of its silence

wisps out a scroll,

that rises like a bubble

and bursts into the void.

The blades of spartina,

I cut and stash, which,

though not as sharp

and hard as my sickle,

prick me at least late than never,

that they were the feather bedded plumes

spread for the butterflies

to pollinate those stamen-pistil dreams

hidden under every living color

that flits around the rift I created

stalking my conscience.

The naked bull-white eggs,

that break down on my hardened pan,

are another phenomena

that become the yoke,

bearing my day on its actin cells

and I wonder how they roll me off

like on the wheels of a bullock cart

into another day.

I realise how, many a time,

I missed the highness of these things,

how from down to the earth

their naked beginnings do end in smoke,

but of something my clothed body

is too busy to understand today.


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