You are waters, I am a fish.
If I were a farmer, the agriculture
And if I were a Brahmin, the mantra
Flew. Flew away from me very long back.
I became a tree blooming with words and sentences.
I dig with my sour fingers in the hot sands for drinkable oceans.
The wretched earth fails to quench my thirst. And for the sake of rhyming,
I bite up into the skies that fail to quench my huger or thirst utter and naked wild.
Wild are those e-forests that were kept unkempt, un-waterd, unfed and also irresponsible.
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