Next September And The Last 25th Poem by Deb Panda

Often to stately pass; they move
Farmers tone, long to season-
And few often, not wonder drive-
To pick, sweat on face his origin
Bulk and steady, mark leaves
In days among dead glories-
To candles, flags of air lies
We burnt with shadow, ruling cries.
Somewhere, morning born into death-
To closest horizon a thought hides
And hence its revival, recited with-
Our Monuments-
This world guides;
To live deeds, after they are remembered-
In cycle, each September with a 25th love-
But enough in eyes, so as mind-it’s singular
No tyrant knave clamp -doves we have.