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East India Poetry

Left Evidence

THERE IS A BUSH THAT BURNS,
THERE IS A FIELD THAT NEVER LEARNS,
AND TAKES IN CHILDREN SUNDAYS
JUST FOR GAMES AND INNOCENT PLAYS.
LITTER PIECES LIE ABUSED AROUND
THE DIRT EDGES OF THE HOVEL.
DUST FILLED PACKETS CRUMPLE
AND COWER AROUND MY HEAP.
MY SECRET EXPECTATIONS I KEEP.
THE DECAYING BRANCH ARRIVES.
HOT, STINKING ASH STAINS THE AIR.
GREY, NO HEART, NO FACE OR HAIR.
FLOG MY FLESH, FLOG ME CHEAP,
THE DANGEROUS PLEASURE IN BEING
WANTED, THE NEED BE LUSTED.
FLOG ME BLIND, STRAIN MY LIMBS,
AND GRIEVES.
I HAVE NO MORE WANT OF LEAVE.
I CAN NO MORE BE INNOCENT
THAN TO BE DEAD.

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