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~
Poor deluded brute
he waves his sword
in orchestration
to a ruthless symphony
played for miserable centuries:
the running of the bulls
"sketches of pain"
some monsters come
decked out in hat and cape
inside the arena of his pride
where he hears the chant
within the arts of
cowardice and cruelty
where he envisions
the feathered crown

Gala! Gala!
"how to see the toreador"
lost as San Fermín
pricked by hairpin
pierced by ragged horn
suerte de la muerte (luck of death)
foreshadowing Hemingway
turns into the troubled sun
and underneath his muleta
a deep red
blood alchemy
his fame spilling out
in drips and drabs
as the crowd sings
'Pobre de Mí (Poor Me)'
to the mystic stab of church bells

~
To know that silence
Is just a pause
A pause to water the cracks in the dry earth
For the shoot to breathe a sigh of relief
Be tickled by the gentle breeze
A tiny shadow under the sun
It takes nurturing to see the plant bloom
And silence to experience
The stillness of the calm
  Jan 2022 Sarita Aditya Verma
Polar
We are but moments in time,
Atoms smashed together.
Formed into transient alliance,
Only to part then reform
Into an endless cycle of renewal.

We survive
Creating memories as we go.
Briefly touching and connecting
With others.

In cognizance of this
All meetings have meaning.

As we smash our way through life,
It’s imperative we connect
And make some sparks

Before we fade away...
Slide into the dark.
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