The chronicle of becoming a poet from an infant

 

 

The future of the children and the green supple grasses

depends on you!

Though you are not get used to call them infant

Is infant only defined if only those have limbs and so!

Who learns to speak lie slowly

Learns to playing game with smoke

Habituates to sleeping like a lazy cat

Get astonished while seeing the decorative imprint of a bread

Loves to read the poem through the romanticism

And dreaming to be a dreamy poet

while hands begin to agitate

Keep in one’s mind that-

Not to become crazy for the fame

Rather be confined in the realm of poetry

Or simply become a hermit, stupid!

 

 

25th May, 2016

 

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