Immortals, by Kushal Poddar

People here have forgotten to die.
Their tiny village sleeps
through the meteor showers
and late night chemical slip,
blasts and those blisters
that appear to eat flesh.
They live through murders, rape.
People sleep. Wake. Rake their gardens,
and as prescribed by Zen,
they undo their heavy work.
I meet people all the time,
forget their names,
and they do not mind.
They live through my id.

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