On Sanchi hill a sedentary Buddha
With eyes turned inward, eyes of introspection,
Did not perceive a play of ironies
Enacted on his lap, but I was witness:
...
Strolling in the British Museum one day in London,
I paid silent homage to the manuscripts.
Shakespeare mortgaging his house for sixty pounds;
Kings acknowledging messages;
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1. Fooling Around
Round and round we went and found
That we were only roaming round,
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Since boyhood I have felt melodic tunes
That lingered unbeknown within my pulse
In rhythmic beats I was not taught to scan;
Wavelets of words and phrases reached my feet,
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When lover lies with lass,
Locked in a monogram,
Their love could be a sham,
For each one loves alone
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October is a season of gauzy veils at dawn,
Something like memory, a scroll erasable,
When you cannot decide or ensure
What to remember and what you'd rather forget.
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In a world where everything is unique,
Unrepeatable, beyond copying by camera,
Beyond reprography by Xerox or forgery,
...
New are my eyes from sleep or tear-laved sorrow,
Awaiting a transient Tomorrow and Tomorrow.
I am reconciled to being just a nameless cog,
But hope that dream or trance allows a monologue.
...