| 1. Lo, my son,|
This is India's map.
These drained lines flowing out
Like frantic cries of impotence
Are rivers sans progeny
Behold, my son,The shaven headed saffron mounds,
The routes of civilization
That has forgotten its footsteps,
The amorous urban ‘Yakshis'
Wreathed in smiles to entrap y . . .
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