Musing 65 Poem by shuvo chakraborty

Our rounds have selfsame of diurnal force
Converging not the sun nor the sunshine anymore,
But around the fat fabled chests full of solid gold.
Dead and living thronging alike from morning to night
With scrambling hands to trace the key missing with cautious eyes,
No more they are divided lots or swords drawn by instilled prejudices
Of fissure in colour of blood or of ascension by birth or of divisions else
But a united legion with iron determination in hearts with spirits spillage
To leave the legacy of golden spoons for the posterity anyhow
And will rummage the each particle accurate of their ancestors bone dust.