Every Sob Belongs toMe
Irate millenniums in deep cave of mind
collapse constantly on the head of patience and
labor pains are smuggled right in time of delivery.
Cantonments of shadows fall down in curses,
in the mid of harvest, crops die away abruptly
and birds flutter in their burning nests hopelessly
at each step bursts up a question and
denudes me now within, now without.
Please tell me!
On which butterfly's tomb
should I scatter my tears?
On what misery may I write a dirge?
Whom should I shove away?
Whom should I hold close?
Here, every sob belongs to me.
Comments about this poem (Every Sob Belongs toMe by Madhav Sarkunde )
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