P.P. Ramachandran


THE HORN

It kept on moaning.
No one took notice,
In the festival revelry.

The poor creature
Had no idea
Its curious, curved
Body was an instrument
Of music and its wail
A musical performance.

Still, its master
Came running,
As a shepherd to the lost
One of the herd.

A horned God
With no human touch.

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