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Poet wins Nobel Prize for literature

"Tomorrow, Tomorrow'

I remember the cities, I have never seen

exactly. Silver-veined Venice, Leningrad

with its toffee-twisted minarets. Paris. Soon

the Impressionists will be making sunshine out of

shade.

Oh! and the uncoiling cobra alleys of Hyderabad.

To have loved one horizon is insularity;

it blindfolds vision, it narrows experience.

The spirit is willing, but the mind is dirty

The flesh wastes itself under crumb-sprinkled linens,

widening the Weltanschauuung with magazines.

A world's outside the door, but how upsetting

to stand by your hogs on a cold step as dawn

roses the brickwork and before you start regretting,

your taxi's coming with one beep of its horn,

sidling to the curb like a hearse _ so you get in.

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