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Life appears to go on in here
With a swear, an oath, a blow
And a stare. Grandpass, I am near
That organic marvel which you impassive show.
They unload, unload. Unload, they grow.

With grey brittled hair, unbuttoned shirt,
Rot rods of iron hold swift roofs to earth.
Their chance-lacking day with tomorrows flirt.
The lovers will mate. The mother gives birth.
Life cascades on to where cascades aren’t worth

Through houses; rooms; intestines; huts;
Crawl along accompanying, barging, fighting dumps
And in their law without clauses, ifs and buts
You either stand out jerked; or you hold no lumps.
Street Cricket sixes rarely use three stumps.

In the bus the men, still, make way for women,
Lovers’ holding hands assume no unreal air,
For all mortal conduct’s enriched by semen
Through for some dark begotten the world’s not fair.
Descended from Gods they have no heir.

Khettarama’s just a cough away,
The lights stand tall; around a TV in a shop
Some, with earnest eyes, watch Sanga sway
And as the catch is taken, their mouths hang; drop.



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