Potpourri

Look a little southward, facing the suns,                                                                                                                    When northward blaze the morning burning pyres.                                                                                                     Ghats of Kashi, all a crescent that runs                                                                                                                          Miles with majestic mirror-river that never tires.
My river’s angry today, or call it restless.
Its foaming, rolling waves make swishing sounds.
Its former flow has changed, with broken bounds,
My river stays the same, or little less, night and day.
Black is the colour of darkness they say.
Black is the colour, definitely, quite true.
Black, the colour of darkness, night and day.
Black it is black of un-fixed hue.
A curse is a curse that burns the blood and flows;                                                                                                    Liquid venom in veins: murdering, butchering, scalding, stops.                                                                              For lost is that fear – a servant attentive.
For lost is that fear above head always hovering.
So, lost is the fear of not ever returning
Heart, once hardened, its terror drained.
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