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Saturday, April 18, 2015

Sounds

Cuckoos- as in voices trained,
Crows- passionate in strength-
Vie to greet me rather early in the day;
Eyes and mind- ajar alike-
I hear utensils brush against each other,
Tinkle, as if it was morn at a temple;
Arrhythmic bicycles noisily rushing
Through the tattered alleyway,
Over bricks exposed from aging
Remind of the tuition classes
That I need no more take,
And they would be late for;
Water gurgling through a jammed tap
Conch yelling from a distance
Like today is festival, every day;
A popular Tagore song rings faintly,
Afloat from an unknown direction,
While the pressure-cooker whistle
Incoherently interferes with luxuries like art-
Contrasting sounds that make my town,
Lend it identity- even in blindfold.

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