Raga Stream

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Ragas drifting in like incense,
And I only dream of her
When that opium incense sedates to slumber,
And all of it is miserable--
Brown earth under nails.
Still the song continues methodical,
The beard grows on the face of
Boys who sit in their closets
Reading poetry, smoking cigarettes
In the early night that feels like dawn,
That doesn't feel like a kiss,
Feigning meditation.
Trying trying!
Yet nowhere
And knowing nothing



The melody of those ancient songs
Sound as if they're fresh field flowers
Alluring us onwards towards them.





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