River Tales

It will be slow, the river
The ripples will not show.
Yesterday they showed another river in the holy city
Dragging along dead bodies and withered garlands.
There was foam too; white froth of factory waste.
It seemed like me,
The everyday carcass I carry inside, rotting slowly;
People will not know till death shows in my teeth
Yellowed, too dead to rot.
They will wonder how soon death came to a few strands of gray
Two sagging breasts,
A gnarled feet, two fingers numb in the left
The tired eyes too dim to see;
Death is only a reminder that life was not lived.


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