(June 15,1942 / Aravayal, karaikudi, Tamil Nadu, South India)

The Old Are The Waste Cotton

As cotton, I was dear to the farmer,
And then to the spinner. Becoming yarn,
To the weaver and as cloth to the wuser
I was dear in care for the rest of time.
Worn out, I was sent to be as waste cotton.
Torn out, I was thrown to disintegrate.
As old, everyone would be thrown out..

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Comments (1)

at least we can decay and eliminate ourselves as not being a nuisance as the polymers! a thought provoking poem!