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All English Sonnets


This murky tale of fraud and subterfuge,
Of bloodshed, vileness, rape and bloody stain,
On trembling thighs. I wonder who can choose
To call it sacred, but some musty brain.

The sages all rescinding their own vows
Of love and peace and taking to the sword
On words of witless chieftains. Joining rows
Of partisans without a grumbling word.

Yudishtra telling lies, and Abhimaniyu,
The child warrior seen entering this mayhem
To die in labyrinths of Chakravyu
But when I read the “Geeta,” a priceless gem;

Like TENZING on the Everest I do feel
I genuflect, do obeisance and kneel.

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