This one woud be-
Dropped dead-
In poor Riksha’s hands-
Who spent the night-
On the cold floors-
Among the festive lights-
And chanting sobs-
Of his holy city–
The morning mist –
Slams out the door –
Into his peace-
With all the heat and hustle –
Of another day-
His holy city’s full –
Of garlands made of dreams-
It’s full of ghosts and dancing fears-
That’s all he has: TODAY—
© Dalia Lane
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