Apr 2017
In the mid of day,
It is getting so dark.
My dreams are all made of clay,
None could get the heat so stark.
All the leaves withered away,
The tree was left with no bark.
It is getting so dark.
My dreams are all made of clay,
None could get the heat so stark.
All the leaves withered away,
The tree was left with no bark.
My HP Poem #1487
©Atul Kaushal
©Atul Kaushal
(33/M/Gòràkhpùr - Bháràŧ)
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