Poetry

Shearing

It is time to harvest

Beeping sounds at

Polling booths

Warmed handshakes

Porcelain smiles

Wafts of change

Time to shear

The goats of scape

Fed with rotten things

Once frolicking

In slums of universities

Smugness implored

At inebriated dens

Sheared for a cashmere scarf

To muffle them forever.

 

~Amol Narayanrao Jadhao

Pune, India

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