Posted by: Ron DuBour | December 8, 2014

Desert~by Purushattom Bhattacharjee




Sometimes I think,
I’ll not write any poem again,
What’s the fruit of writing poems?
Whom for? What for? My verses,
Where are those readers’ hearts?
Who once lived in poesy,
Took showers with the words of verses,
But alas! Dwelling in their secluded isles,
They are now just busy living machines,
Breathing but without hearts,
Passing their selfish lives,
Living but without love,
Behind the musk of friendship,
Now as if there is only `Brutus’
Just waiting for a chance,
In the crowd of humans,
Where is the humanity?
Running and running,
An endless hunger of money,
All are now very busy,
Have many riches,
But no time,
Who will read you today? O My poesy,
In the jungles of concrete,
There only now the clashes of robots.
Composed on – 8th December, 2014.

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