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The ashes rattled in the boot, the dust scattering
the receding dawn light, back in the mother
country lost in its mythos. Another journey
to the source, a return to nothingness. The road cutting
a cold industrial landscape, arid horizon populated
by waking souls, indifference to the vehicle
hurtling to the sacred waters, air
reeking of the waste of human existence.

Sounds of the last breaths reverberating in my head
my eyes red through the morning haze. Mum smiling,
speaking of another country. Home back in the
day airmail to the Delhi folks. Bygone pasts
India left shining to another beat of utopia
lost. From the impossible life, burning
coal in the grey skies of the engine of imperial
decline. Dreams of escape.

Death in the air orange shirts stealing a march,
hate everywhere. Mortal gods on screens selling the
future, dancing flesh whiter than white, goondas
rampaging, thugs searching for purity raping
as tradition reigns. Bharat rising speculating
on fear, Modi empire reloaded, emergency nation-time
open for business, follow the Brahmins to the
camps, holy men in Triumph of the Will.

Red sky at night people struggling. Mao in the
jungle class war Lal Salaam another Naxalbari
imagined. Let the poets run riot, words can
kill the twilight of hope. Dust storms gathering
across time haunted by the failures of history.
Wretched of the Earth losing their mind, daughters
of the dust speaking for another world, sounding
out rupturing the flows of empire.

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