His home swept, his maiden wept.
His fate lay scattered in ocean beds.
Yet still, he builds, day by day,
Idols of folklore in mud and clay.
With bare hands and white belief,
And with innocent hope of relief.
His harvest in flames, once again.
His labour questioned and stained.
Yet still, in ashes he sprinkles seeds,,
Shows them light, provides them feed.
Like a father raising his second child,
In memory of the one that didn't survive.
Today, his greys glide in mature air,
Wrinkled hands and a fading glare.
Smiling, on a withering eve,
And withering, yet with white belief.
But his home will be swept again,
He again will bear a stain.
Only, he won't look the same.
Only, he'll return in another name.
-Karan Ghosh
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