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The umpteenth radical

a trail had once been set
and the trail had then blazed ( while he had been alive).

The man was dead and time had suitably elapsed.
People had lapsed into habits of old,
occasion being ripe another arose.

The first had gathered a flock,
this one managed at the peak of, I insist, career
disparity, with the flock scattering
in directions of kinds.
With banners at the head
and weapons cloaked making the rear.

Grass burnt to the roots
takes just a year to again be called
elephant grass.
Thus trails innumero
were lost.

a sage lost his second set of dentures,
grew a beard which mingled
with his pubes
to mark immense time
he had lost.

One day he wandered out of the grass
shouting, "Fools, fools,
cross the grass astride
an elephant, the roots have no scars.
Who needs a path?"

People scampered for elephants
who till then ran wild.
Time was consumed,
the words of a sage were committed to smiters
with the exhilaration
of rides astride the mammoth
(words flung at a diamond field
from the height of heavens).

and the umpteen radicals were lost forever oblivioned
by subsequent mammoths tamed.