Bhima’s Song

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I was thinking of men who knew when to die,

Who chose their moments with care.

“Put a rhinoceros beetle in a plastic matchbox

And set it out, to fly”, they’d say.

Seconds slip, not much like sand, but

Rather like a child

Pissing the rays of an old god through glass

To decimate the ants.

I was thinking of men who knew when to die,

And how their death was wasted

On cracked Elephant skulls in Indian plains

And on chariot wheels, gripped in the mud.

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About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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