The land isn’t raked,
Savage weeds grow capriciously,
Rugged texture of its leaves hurt,
It’s unvisited– the abject of the past,
Floating in the new born sooty mind!
Disconnected and closed,
Swallowing the streams of evolution,
It’s a masked promise land,
It Flows like the fragmentary river-“I”,
The sycophant puppet is buried beneath!
The shed dry leaves lie carelessly,
Just like the austerity of a modern whore,
They spread, overlap and speak,
On the pieces of broken soil,
Lay the leaves of broken “self”!
To see the whole world in a leaf,
Or, see the leaves scattered in the world?
To find my mind on that uncombed land,
Or, is the land spread on my mind?
My existence smells like an illusion!
This vision isn’t raked,
It’s blurred, rather capricious,
The modern “world” floating in each mind,
The ground on which I stand slides,
So, I fly like the dry leaves from ancient trees!
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