His cold limbs remained aloof of me,
A sleep resting and existing in him.
Calloused crease constructing pleas,
The war in his head, still breathing dim.
The pride in him being deprived space,
And resistance hovers only in his brows
Willing, wrinkled arms; sharp, pale face.
A harvest awaits him now at his ploughs.
I caused him sweat, I drew his blood,
I've wanted to cause his folk a memory.
So as to feed my heart in the name of duty,
And just so that the dying be not me.
-Karan Ghosh
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