We are surely learning to roll with repetitions
Words now urinate to their self coital death
Tolerating little play, unsure of every uttering
Your silent monosyllables, stark elitism
They die too, coiling, curling up their own hymen
There is no furore of life, only the sly of the indefinite
Silence rests, in its foetal sex-wig.
Translating Tagore. Again.
6 years ago
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