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By Jayant Kashyap

*

 

The road is full of perfume. Urine. Bile.

Death.

People walk the road, up and down, in high

boots, heads straight     it matters to nobody

the terror that took the toll only a day ago,

(a year is a far-fetched time scale)

 

And nothing that happens is new     something

that never happened before     so they say that

history chooses to repeat itself at intervals, to

teach the ignorant what is untaught

*

I had learnt the news, I was ignorant of its

happening to me

 

I knew the history; now I know how it

happens to repeat

 

 

This poem was originally published in the poetry chapbook Survival (2018) by Jayant Kashyap.