#060

half a kilometre away the
Ganga is a bruised
half-sunk lore.

lovesick youths
throw whisky bottles
and swear, rust-lipped

and somehow the nights
are without stars
i remember-

mother throwing coins in the
water. now stillness
feigns her face

the same way, kisses
fade on these mossy steps
leaving nothing but flashbacks

©Mohana Das

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4 thoughts on “#060

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