They promised they'll come to help,
But they never did,
They promised they'll give us bright future,
But they never did.
When there is no rain,
They didn't hear our groans of pain,
And with the unseasonal rain,
Our land flooded in drain.
They didn't come,
But the wrath of the nature did;
They didn't come,
But the dutiful bankers did.
Our hands which feeded thousands,
Now curled together for handful grains,
Our eyes which once shined bright,
Now became the sources of darkness.
Our lives are in a mess,
Nothing could remove this distress,
There's only one way to cope,
To hang our hopes with a rope.
Under the farm mango tree,
I decided to be free,
To the same tree which gave me shade,
I asked it to be my spade.
Now, the farmer died,
They came for consoling and grievances,
Before the avalanche of photographers,
The same lies they told again.
We waited, waited, waited,
We're tired of waiting,
But we have no choice except to wait,
So, we will have to wait.
And the cycle repeated.
YOU ARE READING
S P I L L E D T H O U G H T S
Poetry❝ I closed my eyes. Silence. I hear nothing. Somewhere from the deeper layers of my soul, a fainted voice emerged and slowly, it grew into an uncontrollable freshet. I ripped my heart open, bursting the dam of the untamed emotions, to let rhapsody o...
