the paper wheel seller, by moinak dutta

In sultry scorching noon of summer
When the lane before our house would wear the most desolate look,
Oft that paper wheel seller would walk by,
A score and half paper wheels stuck at the end of a pole
Would make a stirring noise, whirling in the hot listless air;

I would think of the paper wheel seller as the most blessed soul
A magician perhaps, a liberated man,
Ignorant of the heat of Indian summer.


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