Stream

Thoughts went on in a mess of no meaning . No meaning would still mean some meaning . Even if we slurped tea at roadside kiosk and looked on at the lake of green hyacinth and our consciousness remained a puddle as we counted cups of drunk tea in waste bin.

From where we stood we saw the river of life flow quietly by scraggly rocks of Golconda .Our people’s consciousness came down to us as so many words spoke in the small hours and as textile pictures on sarees that felt like half formed country maps of new islands.

Our consciousness went on below skin touching our bones and would go on again in other tea-slurping bodies by decayed lakes in a steady stream of decaying bones and flesh.Their stories will flow like mountain stream.

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