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The inner thought of creation is enmity.
The motif of creation is dragging a shadow
Of our doubts over our intelligence,
And bringing us pain.
Look at the fountain of water gush forth.
From Nature’s mountains and stones.
And we gaze into our hearts,
And see the same red water!
Since the first water is red with the blood of the slain.
The tiger is still chasing the deer.
I have killed men - my body is filled with their blood.
And I am the brother of this fallen brother.
And since there is no light anywhere, we sleep on.
Now there's no sound, not even of all those crows.
Human skulls and bones do not finitely enumerate man (Do they?).
We sleep on.
If I were to call -
From the river of blood as it billowed up,
Coming close by, they would say, "I am Yasin”,
“Hanif”, “Mahammad”, “Makbul”, “Karim”, “Aziz…
And you?"
Placing a hand upon my chest and
Raising up those eyes from his dead face, he would ask.
The blood-river welling up, would say,
"Chris", "Michael", "Gagan",
Of Kashmir,
Of Manila,
Of Baghdad,
Of Bukhara,
Of Kabul
Who knows from where!
They are all men of Life's low classes;
Ragged shoes on their feet
Purchased the bug-damaged articles in the market.
Through creation's relentless drive
All these tiny beings awoke
And in the rays of the afternoon sun
Suddenly these particles had appeared beautiful.
And then vanished into the unfragmented eternity.
There is no one, nothing.
The sun has gone out.
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Raja
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Indrjit, You Are To Old For Your Young Eves, my son. Gene Winston Owens, Sr. | Jul 8th, 2004
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