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The River

I am the River, and I flow.
Through the mountains, valleys and plains,
To the ocean, I flow.
I make the rains, I make the sand.
I make the crops and till the land.
But I make no time.
I collect dirt, dust and gravel.
I collect dead bodies and flowers.
But I collect no time.
For time is sorrow,
And the River is joy.


Copyright ©2000 Karthikeyan Subramanian

The Cargo

On this train of life, I carry today
A cargo of mutilated thoughts,
Travelling endlessly through this landscape of time.
Thoughts big and small, thoughts ephemeral and eternal,
They are the basis of existence, the bricks of the soul.
These trees and mountains, what thoughts do they think? 
The river, perhaps it carries their thoughts to the sea.
The wind, perhaps it whistles their thoughts across the plains.
Thoughts budding, thoughts blooming, thoughts withering,
Life rises and falls in this cauldron of thoughts.
But mutilated thoughts, they have died before their time.
Cut down by the sword of the ruler,
Bludgeoned by the tyranny of society.
Not just thoughts, but mangled souls I carry.
No amount of earth will do,
Only an ocean of tears can bury this cargo.


Copyright ©2000 Karthikeyan Subramanian