Eighty Four Hundred Thousand Lives Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

Eighty four hundred thousand times,
Getting born, dying, in-out of grimes,
And then getting as human born,
Living vain, blowing vainest horn,
And in due time O to get old,
And getting still life's no real gold,
And then, when time is it to leave,
Life's warps in an unfinished weave,
It's more like borrowing a book,
Giving it a cursory look,
And return it as was, unread,
Life lived all but vain, and now dead!
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Reflections |04.11.2017|