Poem
Always tempted to tame the beast
It's like living amidst living corpses
Going back with a rice bag, the rice went on dropping itself amidst the path. The grains are precious, but can we make rice of 10 grains edible? The lady in the house has been birthing babies, the blood is too precious to let it seep away from the iron-deficient bones, and the organs need it to run the function of life, ends the embrace and resonance of this icky but necessary feeling, the ride and tide of the urban inside the turban of a king flexes his dynastic privilege leading to tears in seepage, in the usage of someone’s dignity being broken piece by piece.
He chooses to remain silent, in a non-violent noncontested domain in the porcelain-veiled alligator scales emerging out of skin assumed as a God-fearing Chandala, in a durbala (weak) body! Take the grains off of the cremation ground, wash my used utensils, consume the filth that I give, we build a social structure, a hierarchy of confusion, with precision to destroy many generations, one by one till nothing is left.
Bereft of any nutrition to add to your brain. The brawl is captivating, they are built to be slaves, for the animals, are more precious, 10 ounces of meat enough to sell their women in the parading streets of a shire, ghat, pur, city, state, town, country you name it. Even Pigs break from the tyranny of exploitation why wouldn’t they? There lies another Gold Coast, where bodies lay, and cries disappear, everywhere the replication of it resides in communities that have habitual rituals of pretending to masquerade in stylized masks.
This post is about slavery…
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