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Or should I follow the way my feet tread Gently on the water’s skin, Towards the creaking barge of light That ploughs the blue mist, And climbs aboard and floats into my life Crowded with living, breathing, Hoping, loving, clinging, lying, Hating, praying, killing, dying, burning, Ashing, losing, The breath of time smelling of sweat and longing?


From the moment we are born they say, We are on our way to dying; But I, sitting here in the eye of a cicada storm, Feel I am being born again As evening shawls about my shoulders And the fragrance of oranges blesses the air.

© Randhir Khare 2016 POETRY july ©

Live Encounters Poetry July 2016  

Free Online Magazine from Village earth

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