There is an utter in my mind
Sometimes is shouts and is unkind
At times it sings a carefree tune
As if it's a sunny day at noon

Oh, but it can be careless
Screaming at me with it's furiousness

In the morn when I awake
I wait,  I listen,  for my own sake
There is a voice that is so dim
It's hidden and arrives on a whim

But if you're careful and direct
You may hear the spoken secret
The faint hiss may escape my mind
Then it's no longer private
Then I can leave it behind

The pages were ripped, the pages were spread,
what in the world could have, ferociously, lead
this young man to snapping?
And black as these pages must have been his heart,

and torn like these pages, his love fell apart.
She saw it coming, knowing he'd crack,
stood there, did nothing, or cut him no slack,
closing herself when he opened up, she

was the case and he was the book, and
mad as a crook, he grabbed his last chance,
did not kiss the cook, killed her instead,
for boiling his rage as furiousness rose

he gave it a shot and tried to propose,
love me or die, so I can be free.

To earth she had fallen, no more than a second,
later, he followed, down on one knee, he tried to kneel,
for his love was too strong, it ate him alive,
perfectly prepared, his favourite meal,
scorched ribs, spare'd.

The menu was wrong.

Life can recognise
Caste, religion and colour-
A disease of three symptoms:
Caste is engaged with skirmish,
Religion flares up with sudden
Intensity of furiousness, and
Colour creates dissociation.

None but DEATH is constant:
He never plays the role of an actor,
He never does judge on caste, religion And colour:
He believes that there is no gap
Between the palace and the hut.