On The Edge
On the edge of the road..;
While he was going on his way,
In a feathered feet..
He became a dust..!
Pale I was standing and motionless..,
As a withered tree..
And the wind stings my lips!
On the edge of the road
Barefooted i was standing..
Holding my fists on a handful of dust
While the ash leaking from
The hole of my heart..!
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Comments about this poem (On The Edge by Fatima Nusairat )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Harold Hart Crane
(21 July 1899 – 27 April 1932)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(25 November 1890 – 1 April 1918)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(6 January 1878 – 22 July 1967)
(1886 - 1967)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
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