Is It Poetry
How Can I Regret
As it were,
where men had breathing, lain.
Depth so intence in so deep.
And futher down.
Father than any could see.
So one says-there it is.
Come to me,
yes touching the heart of her blind.
There it is, eat it up, suck it down.
Turn around I climb up looking out.
Moving around looking out.
What am I to she?
suddenly she is filled,
filled with joy.
How could I and no one else.
Cause such joy.
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- The Art of Living, Bijay Kant Dubey
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