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POEM: Sacred River

Sitting on the ghat,

folded legs


spine straight.

Gazing at the flowing river,


thinking that sacred waters

must answer sacred questions.

But they recoil from the answer.

From being shown that they are the river–

a river which forgets that which happened,

while remembering events that never did.

They crave a gift of clarity.

But the only path to understanding

is a backwards plunge into an abyss

in a moment of sacrificial madness.

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