The sparrows leave, one by one—abandoning the city’s
lamp-posts and flamboyance branches to birds
who had departed – a hundred and fifty years back.
A fragile ensemble of colours – yet to become a cacophony
In this incessant labour of locating the debris
within the mud of the wheat-field,
witnessing is bound to be deficient.
A dinghy stuck in the river-sand;
In the ripples of this creek, which begins
where the map ends, the tip of the bayonet
frisks, awaits the barbed wire.
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