The boatman of Vaitarani
rows over flowing stories
between life and death.
He writes them down with an oar
dipped in everyone's blood.
Tallying, good and bad
is none of his business.
A boat and an oar at his hand.
That's his reality.
The starts he knows
are full of noise
The ends, every time he assumes
to be little different.
But he rows on
and writes on.
Another sludge in the river.
Another smudge on the paper.
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