A low hanging fruit

Behind the saree waving tree, the sun is a low hanging fruit .

In the morning ,the words recalled a body, its journey from the darkness of a mother’s inside to a white wall. The body had banged its whiteness and a horn duly sprouted ,a head bump on human aliveness.

There was some ice  at night on the floor .In the morning ,rice flakes were strewn outside a van.

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