Those Who Woke, And Made Me Their Rib-Bones' Prey Poem by Pijush Biswas

Those who woke, and made me their rib-bones' prey
Those who singest, thou, singing on me
While on ferny floor bade me, 'twas a grey;
It may be I wasn't witty as of sea
Hence, thy unrestored lute, played on
Upon trivials of me; I was beat-
Unto a loom, until comes a strict dwan
Of radiant to me, once who did cheat;
The days must come on, me too, must to save
And thy e'er-lasting deceivings must dive
Into dreary conditions of lives' grave
Thence I fist my success, thee, who must give
Twelve hours' unrest seeks of lives, produced
Thee; Now I pile my grieves on sandy shore
To an immature blots of pen, seduced
Must wash them, - digging graves, of lore.