Monish
Life is like a river;
we are fish.
The water’s wholesome and fresh
and we would swim forever,
but for a black figure
on the riverbank.
There Satan stands,
in his hands
a fishing rod,
and catches fish.
With a worm that eats the dust,
a little lust,
a moment’s pleasure,
the line is baited.
Hardly a flick
and the pike flies in the pan
to be fried or roasted
on the…
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