Tuesday, 18 September 2012


My childhood, a spoon on the sickle
That gets hot at every burn of struggle,
As if I am blown out like a burnt fly in heat wave,
That covers me in its huge wing folds.

It is not that I am on the wrong path,
I want to survive, struggling with reality,
I am not aimless, but some unknown
Luxurious persons drug my feet for their gain.

The entire dream is a broken night lamp
That clings over my head while sleeping.
My bed is screwed to a fixed wall,
That is crude, coated with blood-soaked color.

On this way I am moving with affiliations
Those are not mine, but are imposed capsules
That cannot generate dream, but give nightmare,
And with this, my living standard is poor and nostalgic.

Note: I am happy to received 

The Perfect Poet Award List For Week 73, Happy Rally! Thanks to Hyde Park Poetry