In a story
of a yellow rufous summer
where zillions of tiny-little poems
gathered together
in coalesce
to emit a vibration
of light, the light so bright
that it drowned away
all the shadowlands,
all that was dark,
leaving only the
fleeting glimpses of memory
and deflating clouds
of monsoons long gone,
in that story of the yellow summer
I was a witness, a spectator.
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