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Be it

It flip-opens in you. It bursts out. Gashes deep. Makes you bleed. You’d writhe or feel  stifled. You’d flinch or struggle. But you wouldn't complain. For if you do, you don’t have it in you.

Long coffee sessions, caffeine rush. Fistful of rum. Or chalice-deep wine. Singular walks. Drifting monsoon. Dwindling hills. Gushing rivers. Smoke, fire, or snow. Forests or deserts. Longhand. Sharp wit. Vague humor. Extended talk. One humongous sigh. That eccentric silence. The abyss inside a thought. These are indispensable. A slight remark would set you off. A tiny inkling would fuse into spark. A background sound would tick your edge. It would demand or vanish. It would sink or float. You might have to chase it. You might have to erase it. You might have to do it over and over as long as you breathe.

Cut it. Be it. The writer.


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At Dusk

At dusk, the tale starts,
Light recedes from around,
I feel ajar.

Pour out of me an invisible dream,
A verse too old, a melody;
I lose all flesh, radiate;
Whatever remains, escapes,
Along a river stream, I stroll.

The moon emerges,
Proves again its showmanship
Upon the row of boats

And the water below;
I float, sink and float.