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One more day cremated hastily
and its dust hurled
into the loitering sunset
carelessly descending onto worlds
yet inhabited by people who breath

Mortals in other words,
mortals all the slides
that have flitted ceaselessly across,
one by one.
Evenings have to die,
nights have to run out of time.

One more morning comes crying in desperation,
and settles down to burn
to turn to dust.
And how often have you called me optimistic.


More By  :  Sunil R. Nair

Views: 1377     Comments: 0

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