Poetry by Harekrishna Dey

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    Pressure cooker

    I pick it up like a grain in the bowl of my mind.
    Numerous pains like sorrow, suffering, deprivation and suffering.
    I washed my way with uncertain footprints.
    The mill of life is grinding in Bella,
    Round like a loaf of bread
    I fell in the cold pan,
    I became stiff like a heatless cork,
    In the cityless kitchen of the pressure cooker.

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