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By Akash Sinha

A presence. Have you seen her brushing the stair-case?

Looking to find a certain no one sitting. On the marble step.

Sudden shivering of a Periwinkle. An Epicurean romance.

Wind is proof of man’s yearning for God. Breath is the great necromancer.

Do you not hear my spirit bellowing? My Father!

My lover finds composure looking at gaps between wooden planks. She hisses between gaps of her front teeth.

She is a pupil of all things basic. Her teachers are skeletal teak chairs, simple functionality of a rubber band or the cold utility of a paper clip.

She is a gypsy girl who unburdens her curls every three miles.

All her life she sought absence of history. In the hours before crackling of light, she made her exit.

I only later found her hair net bun. It was festered with wasps with yellow abdomens.

Away from all density. She kept slipping into forgetfulness, almost deliberately.

Wind is a classless heretic which flutters underneath skirts and slaps arrogant sailors.

It prays underneath the ascending seagull’s wings and creates ghoulish flatulence in bankers.

Wind is sorcery. A naughty way to not let us settle. Wind is not your kin. Never trust the thieving wind.

Is any man, beast or ghoul safe from wind’s thievery?

By Akash Sinha

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