Bazi alis Subrata Ray
The Waif’s Wailing.
The parental dismay pities,
The identity whereabouts,
The existential beguiles,
Torment the psychic retreat ,
And the heaps of compromises,
Shroud the corpses of conscience.
The dream of pigeon's nest,
Waits in withering heath,
And the garland-glory of a mistress,
Changes paper-flower in red-light heats.
The shadowy residue of erosive hope,
Pricks like the wasted youth in Fate's jail,
And surely in blind desert, will come the last mail.
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