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2 poems by Ajay Jhawar


My journal holds a fragrance - a flower pressed between its pages, decaying; it did not have any when the man in mid-20s picked it up from the narrow, expressionless, abandoned corner of the city.

Is it the smell of courage?

My journal holds a fragrance - a man picking a fallen flower from the street, gently; he was taught not to be, when in early teens brought up in a common, ordinary, patriarch house of the city.

Joy Abandoned home gathering dust dance with fluffed curtains when a mouse runs over the piano keys

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