Sonnet Number - 101 Poem by Muzahidul Reza

Sonnet Number - 101
January 12, 2019

Lots of black and stone hands have grasped
And twisted the soft, colored, sweet flowers;
Now, here, around our stuck and cracked spot
No sign of those multi fragrant flowers;

Now here are too poisonous thorns scattered
Around all those smashed and sapless dry stalks
To prick, hurt and turn all into quite dead
And to hang carcasses on top of trunks;

To frighten the future generation
With horrible, horny, thorny devil
So that here can be found no production
No peace, but full of huge ill and evil;

So, to go, to do; you don't realize
Or, for you coming not a well sunrise.