Dear heart let it go
Don't be stubborn
Eid is a name of joys
Glads've no relation with us
We're sorrowful and wistful
This Eid is not for us
Our clothes are chapped
We are still bare,
Hungry and homeless
We can't afford new goods
People are blind having eyes
They can't see our helplessness
All hug one another
But contuse is still there
Our Eid is not depend on moon
This moon doesn't obey us
This should ask us before it appears
A courier of peace; a coupon of hope
Your cost, though, I have been made alien,
Your fruitfulness I heartily grope.
But the lashed back in servitude asks, “WHEN”?
A befitting vestment on servitude
A plague in the metropolis,
Like the Gulliver in Lilliput.
Amass not, thou in bit she seeks.
Though thou enjoyed none methinks,
‘Cos denied is she, much she denies ye.
But let that which we sought be unclink
An ointment on our contuse, we pr’ythee.
And should denial tend your way,
At wrath, me be spared, I pray.
To direct the flow of truth
from hopelessness, some youth
in self's attain, or witnessing's uncouth -
I so remain of God, to not rebuke.
My own truth's calling - His to use
is from this love for you - and find refuse
to let my thought define some wrong's abuse,
without the love of God's contesting fuse!
And so thy trust, important, not of ruse,
defies all badgering that would contuse.
You open then, my mind, with no excuse,
that loving you, assigned with living's lose -
Is as an orifice - not bind, a causing truce,
and we are one in find, a soul's recluse!
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