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People say times have changed.

I still see toads lying flat on the roads in the monsoons. Their joyous leaps put to an end maybe by some breakneck conveyance, before they could reach their sanctuaries safely.

Rains still come down to these sanctuaries like ever: demented! Thousands of invisible light-footed spiders gambol on the buoyant waters of the earth, when clouds kiss the warmth of a frozen sun and melt.

The Sun stays put; as if some Mayan magic cast a spell and froze it. Has it not been millions of years; millions of years of a frozen Sun?

Yet summers still turn to autumns. Burning skies change shades.

In August one half of the sphere still celebrates, like ever; in mine farmers still rise early to work. Hauling ploughs in one arm and prodding indolent bulls with the other, they tramp through the loose grounds barefoot.

I still see stars in the silvery waters of the fields, between the delicate green saplings, at midday, when the frozen Sun smiles directly upon the farmers’ sweat.

Burning woods in the winter air still stir unlived memories of an ancient home in my vagabond bones. Like the splintering wood under fire, I hear my bones crackle under the weight of the unchanging time, where like the Sun I have been frozen too.

I dig my grave before the springs arrive. In a limbo I hear people say: times have changed.