The snail, a few paces old,
snacks on the dawn-light.
The red dirt darkened by
the almost-deluge of previous night
glows too. The Sun of the moment
snails toward mid morning.
The snail sucks the ticks, licks the tocks.
Everything seems almost now.
The creature, as the rays pass
through its housing, becomes
an almost snail, blurred beyond
the tight compartment of a definition.
I am almost myself at this jiffy,
a boat amidst the crimson earth
rowing to grow, not aging
as the progress is as far as the spot
it has been moored since its origin.
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Kushal Poddar
Words and Picture
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
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Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
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