A Timid Man

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A timid man
guarding a blind alley,
leading to a shop for hanging

Aged, lean, pale, a small man,
wearing woollen things, sitting on a stool,
one hand resting on another

Whenever a buyer stops,
he looks terrified,
as a caged bird, the butcher
slits for home delivery

A thoughtful man,
sunken eyes, dry limbs,
never moves,
never asks shoppers
for a visit to his boss’s tapestry

A street dog and the man,
eye with one another at times,
the only thing he does for his chair
in his duty hours

If detected, his owner
will free him, another chance
non-viable, and the blind alley’ll get
a chap with a torch
to light his day

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I write because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, said George Orwell. As a writer, I never kowtow to the whims and dictates of the sacred godmen or godwomen, the political bigots and hypocrites, dealers of laymen, the dishonest and self-serving intellectuals, traders of religions, the betrayers of ‘other’ Indians who eke out a living by their sweat, who are living in fear for being lynched for this and that.

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