What Was Once Boasted Poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay

Some a flowing field of corn
some a barren plate
they die if they are ever born
falls quietly to their fate!

There's little in your hand to choose
not much that you can do
surely isn't a fun to lose
knowing so fast they grew!

What was once the face's grace
boastful glory of crown
vanish without leaving a trace
black or white or brown!

Know the truth bare and harsh
whatever color we dye
from sapling to the tallest grass
is destined to wane and die!