Inspired by posts on Vishesh's and Subbu's blogs
The wise man nods
At my words.
Alas,
He sleeps.
The light tinkle
of this yellow brook.
I shake
the last drops off.
Is Godot really dead?
I ask him
He stares silently
Holding the milk-can.
On Dadasaheb Phalke's Kaliya Mardan
-
From a grove of trees by a river, a child bearing a crown of peacock
feathers emerges skipping and dancing, silhouetted against the sky and
trailed by a ...
1 hour ago
1 comment:
Lovely.
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