Profuse Poem by BIBHAKAR DUTTA

Why the Princess has come
In this dense place
With that purple face?
Why wandering around she's...,
With that deserted heart,
In that abyssal part?
Remorse for love, remorse..., .
I know, I know,
How much selfish he's,
A lavish and lies
Every time as he deserves.

So what else can you glow
That's entangled with false fame?
The poet watches that staying afar,
She had once come to embellish,
To emblem,
That wonderful land.
Such a sick he's,
Was silent at all ignoring
All those engaging desires
Of those innocent eyes,

But the poet will write,
Poet will write...,
Few lines for her,
In these arid leaves,
On this silent garden bench,
Hope you could sing,
You could surmise...,
Now this silent garden bench
Much profuse with divine bless,
Let him muse, let him muse...