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Poetry

The Dead Being

Sudharsana

A being with bones outside and flesh inside
Unpredictably calm and predictably haywire
No vigour behind those languid strides
No vision behind those barren eyes

They were so much like-
That river which showed no ripples when a stone
was thrown at it
Only swallowed it up
and retained it
Never out of water yet never too full to overflow
Still currents that almost never reacted to the wind's blow

Everyone wished for it to dry, to rot, to die
However the river was quite akin to a rye
Never to be defeated despite the conditions
Yet it never shielded itself from those ammunitions

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