Letters
I am happy but there is a pain in this gaiety.
The mosses and thistle have turned their tint on the threshold.
How more eon to be created, these collection of azure are getting shrivel.
How more shall I live on the basis of this white papers.
Everyday you are slaughtering me not with your aura but your letters.
Copyright © Randhir Kaur | Year Posted 2017
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