Someone snatched
and tore apart my poetry
Filled it with images
of a blood-stained VT.
It’s a strange numbness
They make me suffer.
It’s the gunned down Leopolds
My pen can’t get over.
Of the ones I want to kill
I have no names
It’s everyone who cheered, failed or took advantage
When they set my Taj on flames.
and tore apart my poetry
Filled it with images
of a blood-stained VT.
It’s a strange numbness
They make me suffer.
It’s the gunned down Leopolds
My pen can’t get over.
Of the ones I want to kill
I have no names
It’s everyone who cheered, failed or took advantage
When they set my Taj on flames.
3 comments:
Brilliant! again i reiterate to publish your book the moment i have the cash, your pems are vry insightful and loaded.
Arnav...U made my day :-)
Nicely expressed. :)
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