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A Street Pup is Crushed

GOUTAM DUTTA

The dust and grime never bothered him.

The filth and muck from the drains was his playground.

He lazed in the scorching sun,

His tongue hanging out

like a piece of pink cloth

hanging on a clothesline to dry.

When darkness descended in the lanes,

He almost became invisible;

His pitch black coat accomodating

all the darkness that seeped in

between the hairs of his fur.

He used to welcome me every morning,

Trotting at a quickened pace

on sighting me

and then jumping up

to leave his dusty or

muddied paw prints on my track bottom.

His greed of the biscuit,

snatching it from my hand

always induced a smile.

He was a reason for happiness in the mornings,

Till that speeding van ran over him.

He lay in the scorching sun,

A mess of blood and entrails

And was a reason for happiness

for the crows

That feasted on his entrails.


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