Go toward spots of man with bonfire. Dusty infant, died a pauper. My brat soul still stays inside whilst ancient time flows through me. Year after year, day by day, my gracious soul diffuses its scents of cinnamon into ambient plain of presence. O, my corn filed of loneliness, attributed to my kissed talent, blooms corn whiskers of violet color. Clouds of diverse fate befall me. O, goldenrod, a whole fall scene spills out from a single word. O, flora and fauna, a whole panoramic nature spreads out aimlessly.
YOU ARE READING
The monsoon literature
PoetryOur self is always so distant a leap from the surroundings. Literature is the medium of the minority to revolt, to state existence.
