: Season of bereavement: Ubiquitously around us, Death is undertaking a ballet In the crisscross of our streets A name Has planted explosive. On our city Sun by no means flags Neither a moon awaken. Those minds Who were in a training of watching Dreams, Are dead to the world casing White sheet of mourning bottomless beneath squashy top soil. Our house is no more ours. Convenient is no arrogance in what went before And no radiance dogma for present And no forename for life. Whoever outsider at whatever time he feel can pierce No thump on the entrance Neither carillon. Of perpetuation Of prospect telling Those moments lustrous like scarlet roses Are weakening in thin tone Our distinctiveness is no more with us, We have lost it long back.. Our morning Our evenings Are ephemeral Wearing camouflage of trounce. In the opinion of inventiveness annihilation is shallow rooted Eyes with blood spilling, Are screening nothing But the hex of autumn. Heads those are gone, We are preserving there affluence Watering fields of grief.... Don’t know till at what time This spice of fatality Will linger like this....... MOHD YASEEN BAIG....
Posted on: Thu, 16 Jan 2014 04:30:57 +0000
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