A snaking causeway held my eye.
“Corridor forking its way”, said a
passenger. “Mysore in one and half hours.”
Its forked tongue, set to decimate
a misty meadow of palm trees, unspoiled
as yet by the odorous creek;
“All antiques to make
way for the Day the eye will see
but not recognise.”
“Growth’s bugle needs no ears”
Grey fumes echo the earth’s groan.
Dug up fields, impaled by jutting
beams, are clothed in a brown
cement haze; dhoti-clad, bare-chested
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