Ink ripples on mirthless quietude.

Ash turns to silver

The river gleams in the first sun,

then yields to blinding white,

absorbing sweat, blood, tears, bullets, orphaned cries.

And the ashes.

The river flows on.

My pen trawls a bottomless pit

(c) Alaka Yeravadekar

(I can put this on my vlog because Alaka made it from themes I had explored in some haiku I had sent her).


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