The River

Ranju Mamachan
Aug 23, 2017 · 1 min read

Smaller birds have emptied out of the canopy.

Death is near.


It tears through the lands of Tophet,

Cocytus,

black as venom,

inflammable,

singing,

awaiting the time of the cities,

which are a thousand years away.


The woody wings rest in the marshes,

immune to the nymphic song,

awaiting the arson of the banks,

nearing every second.


If you liked this, you might also like Flight.


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Ranju Mamachan

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The writer's soup

Unpacking the mind of the writer.

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