Many Die Starved Of Love - Poem by Aniruddha Pathak
The unkindest of human dread
That can oft hit a man of earth
Scarce of flesh be, nor is blood red,
Which, he’s learnt not to live in dearth.
Faults of flesh can well be treated,
If not cured, alleviated;
But none has a hospital made
To cure the pain of loneliness,
None has medicines invented
For despair, as for hopelessness;
Many a man may die for bread—
A mere morsel, a roof above—
More die of hearts not beating red,
And die starv’d of a little love!
This sonnet takes a slightly unusual design.
It has tetra-chords of eight/nine syllables
instead of the usual penta-meter. The lines
- Sonnets | 08.12.08 |
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