In the beginning i would like to start with a poem,why because, this may recall somebody from his blues , a death cliff...i do not know whether he has been in those grey days still...more over i would like to keep me alive!
My God is an architect
where is the door of oblivion
can heal the wounds of shattered dreams
with a fresh breeze of tolerance!
here the plinth of sorrows
shake the wall of belief and
may crack the roof of power.
when a drop of remorse and
a ray of hope falls to this mundane pragmatic floor
i will feel ,
the Curator and The Architect smiles on us trascedentally
1 comment:
Was that a matter which shattered the plinth to its core?
Post a Comment