*
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.
