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The morning in Banares
along the Ganges
is no longer fresh:
        smell of urine and
        dried and fresh excrement
        merge with smoke, sweat and
        stench of the rotting water
with eyes closed or open
it's only the sight of
sexless genitals
or half-burnt bodies
that incite no nirvana
        now infested with viruses
        unknown to the city
  dharma is eaten
        by vultures in the streets
and the river awaits new birth
dream brokers promise
in convulsions of lust

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