Sunday, 12 August 2012


Walking on the living platform,
I feel like a dry leaf with lovely background,
Easiest way is not for my living, not like the way
Of flowers those are simply clinging with beauty.

Many times, I see the flowers on the roadside,
With expectation; but for me, price of life is turning white
With turbulence, and all songs of life mean nothing,
Money turns as scarcity, as if money is head of all holdings.

The flower still blooms as it is origin of life,
Bones and marrow are not removed, earth operates the nature,
Unending with scope of love and caring.
I find me as an unspeakable object of the white esteem.

Picture Credit: Malabika Bhowmik, Kolkata 

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