Let day come down at the usher's freak bell
Let 'sphere fill with dingle of blood; who care?
We are not ours', far as if you foretell.
How should we mind in your bushy tail
If harmful repeatations be affair;
To declare, to keep on, war, just a gale-
Not ours', but to whom countrymen appeal.
By the shire of lethe, nearby the deep sea
While many and many, craving for heal
Would die, what may your country be, know?
- -Just an unmanured field detolled be;
And see, that all you spake, only a vow
Not to shine in need, or be blest by Him
Rather see, while drawn out we, is but grim.
COPYRIGHT@ RESERVED BY PIJUSH BISWAS
10/28/2016
[Published in his self-published book "Some Suitable Words", in 2018]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem