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All English Sonnets

From nineteen sixty three to seventy seven,
My muse was lost, forgotten, disappeared.
In bowels of the earth or trackless heaven,
Like SARASWATI of legend, this I feared.

Had suddenly become a useless thing
And thoughts were the sacred JAMUNA merrily going
Ah! What was once a sweet perennial spring.
My feeling were like Ganga, ever flowing.

But words were missing like the legendary,
And sacred river. Like a drifting log,
I kept on ever floating helplessly.
And at the great influence at Prayag

I genuflected, prayed in pursuance,
For of words, thoughts, feelings, sole confluence.

GREETING

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