Ferment with a mixture
Of pain and misery, the soul
Shrinks to corners of sewed skin
Blinking to escape
Escaping to survive.

Survive! Not as mere mortals
But counts of a deathless stream,
Writings in the ledgers of keepers
Which lay buried in graves.

Graves not just of mere beings
But of ideas and ideals
Of love and loved ones
Of motherese and madmen.

Not all mad men
But ones aggrieved with the sanity
Of reliving the memory of dead
Who haven’t died yet, everyday.

Chinar ages, turns to fire
Then sheds all it loves
Hoping winter passes, spring
Is when green covers all.


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