They are singingtill dateby taking drop by dropfrom the wordlessnotes of soundmumbled bymy primordial motheron the banksof Pahruli River.Those who knewhow to read the notesof the stratosphereinscribed beforethe alphabet was bornon the daythe universecame into being,keep on writingafresh.Nothing is bornanew.Whatever born alreadyhas not given up itself either.For our peopleshivering in the coldof this continuous rain,I ward off the chillraising heat andwarming upby burning onsheets of poetryyou have not yet read.In the stenchof poems burning,the ghost of thismetropolisjumps on the railsand commits suicide.When the rainwater recedes,the rainwomanwho burns the poemspicks up the half burntand part intactpages of poetryand saves safelyfor the next rainy season.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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