Musing 170 Poem by shuvo chakraborty

They are none of us grazing in the marsh land
Where fine grasses grown upon our bones inconsistent,
How green and vast may be the pasture land
With air clean and looking radiant under the sun
Teeming with millions gentle lamb growing heavier
By fleshes and wools upon the rocky behemoth,
They will not mitigate the dead men hunger
Or warm the graves by spreading the blankets
But will live with us in posture parallel
Staring constant at our dusty epitaphs.