Wednesday, May 22, 2019


(1340)  It patharer stupe

With bricks and stones in a heap,
My mind, it got buried
In a deeply dark cavity.

Never seeing the grass green,
Or the lines of beauty on leaves,
Lone and thronged by inert things,
In what form shall I find relief?

The human moves just like machine,
Chief watchword being to earn money.
Many a game of insincerity
Stands in the way, hard to exceed.

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