written by: Kushal Poddar
A heavy bottom cloud rides
one mystical dildo of some place of worship.
If you do not know monsoon know this –
it doesn’t arrive; it suddenly exists.
The blades of grass stridulate a muddy war
history of heart remembers for bloodiness.
Suddenly the mind ceases.
The pit proves its life.
If you do not know what you know stare
at the pane – the thick thighs of rain
throttle the monuments.
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