THE RHYTHM OF THE BUTTERFLY Contemporary Poetry Anthology by Santosh Kumar Biswa
A contended soul There, could I see, a contended soul, Dejected within, owing to human foul. What type of blessing should I label Upon the bare earth, seeing him fall? Until his last breath, would he be striving, Tormented within with the hope to survive. The exhibitors in his eyes made him bathe, And the pain, wuss and rejection to set. Look, empty he is, with no grains and roof, And his last rusted bowl is his proof, Of his unendowed life with humanity, Around, with those riches with plenty. I could hear him vividly though mute, The wants that all desire to compute. Just see, there he lies with a longing mind, Of colorful rainbows, and feasts to find. But, with just few, left for the next, With another hope, under the pretext.
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