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In the quarter moon years,

I discovered Paz as a quartet,

Of life, pus, milk and death.

Littered between temple and morgue of everyday life,

His words lay as transparent autumn leaves;

Simmering the fragrance of Mexico and India-

The songs of Mayan Gods and Indian peers;

With stains of all that could be said, unsaid and said again,

Like life lived, unlived or to be lived…

On that, I walked barefoot;

And the colour of the blood changed.

His words of air-cotton and balmy earth,

Lingered in breaths;

And smeared the heart as a pagan ritual,

Of it’s own God and prophecies;

And yet temporal!

Words picked from gutter, grave and oven;

Marinated with eternal sun and stone,

Whose ink hit you as a wasp,



And calmed the fever gradually with more poison.

It was only when I got high on his cannabis,

Fences started pouting,

Lamp post started talking,

And benches whispered of all those souls-

That sat on it once.

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