What Is It?
P Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Is there something in the air?
In the gray fatigued sky
That holds no hope of blue,
In the dreary sunshine
That smells of everyday mundaneness,
In the enslaved moon
Tired of bathing the earth?
What is it that lets us survive
the weariness of existence
and make us come back time and again
From the brink of despair?
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