Poem-6
Perfumes can’t supress the smell of rotten existense
How the crows survive with conscience, don’t know
Weaver bird is still there, grumbling against other craftings
how our inner arts are being
Destroyed by Wood-Lice, don’t know
Being in existense is a brawl
Something against custom is like thunder roar
Sometimes I think, If I were a bird!
Or a dog,
Atleast could return barking
To the survival instinct for bones
Men who worked with slogan-
“Crafts survive if humanity survives”,
they are now in silence under sun
Decaying bones because of lacking of nutrition
Is the allowance of dying arts
Shivering life depends on it
Will it survive? No idea
Still remain alone standing
Because love exists between sense and pain