Some mornings, I wake up Upon this pathatic palace, Ushering the day is mine, Some are odd days smooth as the leaves of vine. Some clings; refurbishing old dusts, and season summed up in doubt, But no days more enthralling, When the misty morn-air says, LETS FIGHT IT OUT!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
speak it out or fight it out! These are the options, when we have the clouds of yesterdays doubts!