The Countenance Of The Self Poem by Sajad Meer

Countenance, when i consider,
The mirage, as i dropped over summit,
The fore brain of all the fever,
And lemons, my works well knit.
They call me a happy human,
Par achaeron, am with flaws,
Dissolved knacks in liquor, san acumen,
Insipid in the laws.
When i consider, my village,
With trees sans roots,
And revisit the ages,
Why not, say me brutes.
'Scold the human with red rods'
That the self suffers bright,
As the Niobe did, her gods.
The boasted many, her light,
Even though some of em repine,
Let me repine em once,
Rantle loud to evils mine,
And tell me the nuance.
San sturdy, ecstasy to him.
The ulterior adage,
Still, i m alive to him,
Under the hedge.
The dots b proved,
The devious impel,
With summit, i fell,
And why i lived'!