In the years of rumination,

I only realize,

how far I am,

from myself,

from the element of existence,

the circle ,

where everything,

drowns in a whirlpool,



putting me in an airtight jar,

in a state of stupor,

rousing to the deafening cries within,

yearning to search,

the soul that was,

plucked out of the material body,

a body with desires faded,


cast away to lust’s abode,

too dim and darkened,

following one another,

are days and nights,

in a sequence,

of unhurried jumble,

that it is hard to notice the succession,

the repetition.


but should another come?

if one may go,

it’s like they meet,

not to part again,

or part,

never to meet again,

day and night,

night and day,

hating the chronology,

which feeds the nature,

and nibbles on life,

one season at a time…




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