The following poem is written by Arundhati Balakrishnan, it was printed in Yamuna's 83rd Volume.
Amid the withered spiral notes
And a heap of thoughts
Lay the body of the writer.
Words were still dripping
From his broken nib
Like blood
From
A raw vein.
The ants from the old story
Were coming
To grab the curvature of
His letters,
Moist from the stain of
His memories.
They kept it
For a future,
scarce of
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