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Shruti Goswami Poems
The deity, resplendent, stood, In a shabby dungeon, Shrouded in mystery. Who knows, who prays?
Wanderlust bug…. Smitten..by a thug… Who knows not..what he has stolen.. My heart it is…poor devil…
Blue ice, wrapped in fire, Melt as the mists rupture To reveal a starry sky. And just a moon.
Little feet, charming smile Taking a step, once in a while, Sweetness such, it’s undefined; Like bud or dew, or honey refined.
This searing pain, I can take no more; It's causing me to burn, To the core;
At war with the world, For I’ve never known inner peace, Restless and resentful, For I’ve never known happiness.
The world is slowly breaking apart, Broken to pieces, scattered, Is my little heart, I stoop down low to collect them,
I feel: Like the dewdrops that melt at the touch Of the first sunbeam; The mercury of a thermometer, broken,
It seems but just yesterday, Playing as a kid, those carefree days, Oblivious, to the world, and its cruel ways. Today, it's a different day.
The sound of a falling coin woke up the boy; A clinking sound, One, he had hoped to hear all day long; But luck denied.
It's spread out like a galaxy, Little white cells, dollops of grey cells, And the rest of dark matter. The brain it is,
Song of the Rain
The clouds are gathering Mon Amor, The ramparts tottering; And yet, as I lay, listless,
The doom that we deemed fit for others, Like a predator’s prey in sight; The suction force is too hard to resist, It pulls with all its might.
I don’t think about you at all But sometimes when it rains, And then when the sun shines Down a bit too much,
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
The deity, resplendent, stood,
In a shabby dungeon,
Shrouded in mystery.
Who knows, who prays?
Curious, I peek,
From behind the car window;
To catch a full glimpse.
The cars, at a standstill:
How old is God?
The honks and the hustle bustle;
Is it abandoned? Odd!
As the jostle for start begins,
I pull away, unsure, unclear.
Suddenly, a lady appears,
Wrinkled, draped in white: