Saturday, 3 August 2013


I have to walk on a forlorn street,

My way passes by a sand filled riverside bungalow,

Where live some people with immunity,

Their field for walking is matted with green grass

And controls and measures altogether,

I cannot announce my anger in a voice,

As the wheel of interference is strong and punitive,

Victory is theirs; my anger is a lost boat in the ordeal,

Fortune comes with their dreams, I am the dry leave

To fall upon the river, they make whims and dance

With sound of whistles those are flash news,

I am the onlooker in a circus show, and they are creator

For wind in the firmament of enjoying, and I am flown,

And sandwiched through their business and green houses

With running cars I cannot even ride or hire one.

I am abandoned in a sand hill cleft,

I can only whisper, knowing I have to carry sandbags. 

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