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May 14
I had closed my door on him
He knew why,
A thick layer of grime covered him
He had not bathed for many years
And stank.

He was the poet whose poems
People knew by heart,
While he did not retain them
For more than two days at the most
His publishers called for more,
They needed him to survive,
Therefore, fed him intermittently.
He was still alive incognito
Battling his wit with surmise
Wondering as to why each year
His birthday drew maximum attention worldwide
Of people who did not personally know him
And did not invite him
As they celebrated.

I was aware that he dreamed of a brighter future,
Strived to spell out a new world
Without destroying old relations,
This was just not enough.
He who cannot take care of himself
Cannot be my hero,
He should not meddle with our future.
Also, I detest ***** people,
I cannot tolerate their stench.
Written by
Ravinder Kumar Soni  74/M/Delhi, India.
(74/M/Delhi, India.)   
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