That the peddler will come and take away him away,
That the bootlegger will be his friend,
Ay, the druggist,
Giving the dose of drug
As for sleep of the eyes,
As for his peace and the rest of mind.
Never did his poor and old father imagined it that his son
Going to be a drug-addict,
Would be addicted to narcotics and drugs,
Bhang would turn him into an abnormal,
Always smiling and flying,
Not here
That he would ganja sometimes in lieu of,
Putting into an earthen jar
And his eyes red-red,
The mind crazy-crazy and temperamental
That he would toddy, stale and sour palm juice
As for intoxication,
A bottle of mahua wine,
A cup from rotten rice brewed liquor,
In oblique for.
An addict, a drug addict, he had never imagined of
Making him,
A loving son gone berserk, turned half-mad,
Crazy and abnormal,
Walking naked on the roads.
The red-red, sad-sad eyes of the addict,
His loiterings into the hills,
As for his dream of being an aghora sadhaka,
Cutting hand and joining with a tree
As for to be a philanthropist.
The jackals marking him near the burning ghat
Of the hilly rivulet,
Running away at the dead of the night
And he lost in his meditation
Near the ghat atop the hills
To tumble a rock to cut off the link road of civilization.

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