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How much we try
To be free
Of memories,
That dawned on a pasture
Had a streak of sunshine
And upon losing
A monsoon it followed;
A silent wet corner
It left,
Could never be dry
Due to occasional rain
That made it fertile
For fungi to grow
And throb on the body
Of mind
That housed the grave
Mushrooms are their flowers
Wild, raising their heads of
Constant ire and pain
Wish we could get rid of! |
