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To the fish
If thou didst feed on planktons, fish smallish
Whilst floating on thy pair of fins as feet
In Arabian Sea as might whim thy wish,
Or didst find in cool lake a safe retreat
From fishermen or anglers indiscreet.
Perchance your oil was used, livers to cure
Or found on some shop floor a shelf secure,
Or in a choicest dish chosen to eat.
O beauty, fit to be in a fish tank,
What luck, thou art on a kitchen platform,
What travesty of destiny’s fair norm,
Whose justice seems to look askance, nigh blank!
Yet, departed fish, we pronounce thee fine,
Here at dinner, consumed with table wine.
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Sonnet |05.06.2024| fish
Copyright ©
Aniruddha Pathak
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