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Table mute, clock still, books silent, Pitiable is the loneliness of my room, My room, from years, is counting Every throb of my heart stealthily, It has offered me the motherly lap On the fatigue of existence, The memories of its silent blessings Lull my heart to peace, Its walls accompany me close To kill the feel of loneliness, Her two pictures, studded on the front wall, Stare me lovingly sometimes As I am the prince of some distant land, My room, the buddy of my past Is stranger to every care, every feeling today, Its tomb echoes my sighs As some devotee prays on the grave of a saint, The features of people photographed on the dusty calendar Gaze at the wrinkles of my face, As the open eyes of a dead one Stare at the faces of helpless kinsmen, Even these books are not soothing today, The poems of Keats, The sayings of Aristotle are still as the marble structure, You say some, Oh! My still beating heart, You are my shoulder, my friend today, Give some light to this dark room, I know what pain you have borne; Look at the sore wounds of my face, SEE MY EYES, MY THOUGHTS ARE CHAINED,
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1/23/2021 3:58:18 PM # 1.0.0.425