A lark keeps singing
With a magic of her own
A dead larch standing
With a forest to be grown.
A maim in wheelchair
Neither dead nor standing
Keep on days counting…..
When she could take her own care
In the street it’s beggar treat
Throwing the lyrics in summer heat
Expecting the penny from every head
Never felt bad about the rejected bread.
Off the world I came back
A thing that fills every empty rack
Clears the way as a storm
Gives the tender like your mom.
Samir Santosh
Sir Padampat Singhania University, Udaipur
samir.santosh@gmail.com
http://samir-chikki.blogspot.in/
'Campus Writing' 