The last of the lot.
Recycling
Tonnes of paper,
Blank, written on, scratched out,
Leaves of some literary autumn,
Letters of business and love,
Notes passed in class,
Pages torn from a diary,
Ripped from a pirated novel,
Shredded ribbons of flawed numbers,
A riot of colours spilling over margins,
Folded and cut and pasted,
Enfolding warm telebhaja.
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