Corks lay open for days on end,
But the lesser mortal’s spillage makes the dent.
The bulky forays into the by-lanes,
But the lone drawn chair does not miss the pains.
Weeds grow hither, cloths lie strewn thither,
But the bag adds to the clutter.
Hearth is no more where the artery lies,
Hearth is where the mind cries.
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