Washing hands day and night
my fate line is almost gone
my lips have lost the rose
behind my black mask.
The stink doesn’t enter my nose
his shaving lotion does not irritate
his hisses and their spits
don’t raise my nose in despair.
I swallow my breakfast tasteless
all hot sweet and salty things
taste the same at dinner
tongueless I work, eyeless I move.
Tomorrow who knows I may lose
my hands, legs and ears at noon
words will fly at my deaf ears
and I’ll laugh aloud all alone
as the theatre king cries
in the deserted crematorium
for his lost kingdom.
Sabita sahu
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