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In the deadness of this prison,
                some things are still alive.


The most alive are these pack of dust particles,
    that sneak in with the beam of light through the crevices,
        and they wander like golden retrievers exploring everywhere,
            touching all they could touch, sniffing everything they could sniff,
                and moving aimlessly and forever.
                Just like us,
            a pack of star-dust,
        in the vast universe,
floating wherever we can, unknowingly and always.


And then there is this pocketful of hope,
    Of time to be fortunate to my family and friends,
        Of my body to stay healthy for the years to come,
            Of my sanity to stay patient and not give up,
                And of my courage to not die off too soon.
            But is this hope, or fear, I wonder,
        They’re just like the two sides of the coin,
    Gifted to me like a beggar I am
And all of it is just temporary.


And then there is this tiny-tiny thing,
    I can’t even fathom how it still exists,
        Today I stand accused, guilty of murders,
            But I couldn’t put an end to this one silly kid.
                And It still breathes, I know not how.
            It still imagines the sun and the stars,
        It still laughs, and plays, and sings unreasonably well
    And somehow it still lives inside,
No matter how dead we all are.

Published in Poetry


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