Somewhere in Visakhapatnam
Barefoot children stop and stare
Gazes arrested
By the banganapalli trunk
Whose fruit sways gently
In a summer wind
And brown eyes
Calculate trajectory
Of perfectly thrown stone
Placed just so
To summon sweet delight
Fleshy and fulfilling
To Epicurean urges
Of Dalit and Brahmin
Just the same.
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