Jagannath rao Adukuri

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Poetry Is Late

Poetry is now the late breeze rustling in the tree
After the temple tank's mossy stillness.
On consciousness had luminously arrived
The phallus god, in brown beauty- hues
And cyclical eight faced phallus, in turns,
Tranquil-white and angry-red in stone eyes.
Polished now as God, a washer man had used it
In rhythmic beats, all for beating laundry.
We have our myths, carefully polished

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