They say it’ll be a cold winter this year
The coldest we’ve ever seen
While men carve roads out of mountains
And roads slip into streams
I shall forget you a little each day
Like water in a city dies
A line for your mountainous dream
a token note saying goodbye.
So here it comes
like breeze through a door ajar
For the spaces you carved
Now the dew settles on the tar.
For Dashrath Manjhi (written on 15 December 2007)
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