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Poetry posted as and when it happens. Two bodies ruined by a single sweetness. Hail to thee blithe spirit. Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thoughts. Sonnet 130 by william shakespeare. Suckled in a creed outworn. The world is too much with us.
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Photo art using artistic photo filters and effects. Camel man in the Jaisalmer desert. Gazing at the Splendor of Jodhpur fort. The camel man of the desert near Jaisalmer. At the royal cenotaphs in Bada Bagh in Jaisalmer. Bada Bagh in Jaisalmer with royal cenotaphs. Camel man in the Jaisalmer desert.
I keep this from my children . I have to sell them this world. I keep this from my children. I am my good bones and they are my bones. I keep it from my children. And will be dust anytime by a conservative estimate . I keep all my estimates from my children. That is how I successfully sell the world to them. How nice, who knows what lies ahead! .
Poems with Indian motifs, Indian cultural expressions. Light grew less in his eyes and other poems. Light grew less in his eyes and other poems. We try to picture great grandmother. We did not know who our g. But would dream her in holy thread. On shirtless chest, a lump in throat.
There is the broken moon on the housetop there. Cold and soggy, snuggling to the breezy coconut. The elephant god is not looking for it for laughter. After a heavy meal of sweets in his child-stomach. Our dear elephant-god lies in now broken himself. At the bottom of the lake, snuggling to the algae. Time for a many-armed mother, who shall bestow. Our victory for this season, wealth for our devout. The mother maternal, eyes wet with love for sons.
Notes towards making of photo-images. The queen is in the well and long live the king. The queen would amble down the stepwell softly on her dainty feet. She would bathe in the well below while the sculpted gods and goddesses on the walls gawked .
Everything is such a fake here including all things I have said and what I may say at the end. I do not know what to say next. I am just faking it for the real as the original vanishes in the sky. It is such fake overarching sky ,fake like your Gucci handbag.
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Poetry posted as and when it happens. Sounds come from drums and pipes. From silences ,vacated by crickets. Men turning in a sleep, from dreams. The wedding sounds are of joint sleep. Of many liquid nights and tear sounds. From black-lined eyes, red hurt noses. Sounds of two bodies sleeping, rising. Posted in poetry by A. We hear about the boy who stared in the hospital.
Art, Craftsmanship, and Community. Works of the Mind Window. This entry was posted in Uncategorized.
My story of Modern Time.