Why is the sun wrapped in a feverish toil?
And the splattered white drops agonise the soil?
What makes the chirpy winds bound to mourn,
That even the singing sparrows fails to sojourn?
Asks my enraged heart labelled with dew,
Why doesn't the outcry reach ears of the few?
How long will the leaves burn pretending ease,
Can the frozen sky ever return back peace?
YOU ARE READING
Raconteur
PoetryA blank canvas where I weave my words of diverse colours into a larger picture of meaning and significance
