"misers" poems
Reconstituting globalization to
re-imagine democracy.
By throwing out scale we
the economizers are forced
to turn into misers
and the satisfisers
might rid themselves
of their pacifiers.
It's all about story and
consuming someone else's
turns you into
an actor, an automaton.
Was it prescribed?
Were you imbibed?
Then you are impaled
on an un-truth and
living out a script
that is not your own.
Time to get ruthless and
cut those strings that
lead us to, plead us to
buy, buy, buy (and cry, cry, cry).
Of course, we might find
a guru
to lead us to promises
of promised lands but
this ain't the way to
Yahweh
Unlock the path that lies within.
I'm talking 'bout multi-spectrum bridges
resonating in frequencies
that ring true for you:
this is the story of Power Geometry
re-constituted
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
We two boys together clinging,
One the other never leaving,
Up and down the roads going—North and South excursions making,
Power enjoying—elbows stretching—fingers clutching,
Arm’d and fearless—eating, drinking, sleeping, loving,
No law less than ourselves owning—sailing, soldiering, thieving, threatening,
Misers, menials, priests alarming—air breathing, water drinking, on the turf or the sea-beach dancing,
Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness chasing,
Fulfilling our foray.
4k
A is for Austerity
To pay back the Bank
For the Collateral
On your defaulted Debt
That exploded Exponentially
Like the financial Fiasco
Of the Grecian Governments
Indebted to Hitler's Homeland
Return to Investors
The rent on your Job
Capital is their Kingdom
The laborers are Landless
Misers enslaved to Misery
The N
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
Oh love! that stronger art than Wine,
Pleasing Delusion, Witchery divine,
Wont to be priz'd above all Wealth,
Disease that has more Joys than Health;
Though we blaspheme thee in our Pain,
And of Tyranny complain,
We are all better'd by thy Reign.
What Reason never can bestow,
We to this useful Passion owe:
Love wakes the dull from sluggish ease,
And learns a Clown the Art to please:
Humbles the Vain, kindles the Cold,
Makes Misers free, and Cowards bold;
And teaches airy Fops to think.
When full brute Appetite is fed,
And choakd the Glutton lies and dead;
Thou new Spirits dost dispense,
And fine'st the gross Delights of Sense.
Virtue's unconquerable Aid
That against Nature can persuade;
And makes a roving Mind retire
Within the Bounds of just Desire.
Chearer of Age, Youth's kind Unrest,
And half the Heaven of the blest!
2.4k
As the apple
bursting bellies
beryl tides and
as the apple
lucid blue, a
wasted gut and
as the apple
a stitch of skin
of rude thoughts and
obscene gestures of
****** fingers of smiley
lies of cats in graveyards
and bleary eyes
of ***** misers
of the foolish ***** of
the four-legged wanton
silver tongued and
as the apple
a boy sits
and worries after
my ugly twin.
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
Oh love! that stronger art than Wine,
Pleasing Delusion, Witchery divine,
Wont to be priz'd above all Wealth,
Disease that has more Joys than Health;
Though we blaspheme thee in our Pain,
And of Tyranny complain,
We are all better'd by thy Reign.
What Reason never can bestow,
We to this useful Passion owe:
Love wakes the dull from sluggish ease,
And learns a Clown the Art to please:
Humbles the Vain, kindles the Cold,
Makes Misers free, and Cowards bold;
And teaches airy Fops to think.
When full brute Appetite is fed,
And choakd the Glutton lies and dead;
Thou new Spirits dost dispense,
And fine'st the gross Delights of Sense.
Virtue's unconquerable Aid
That against Nature can persuade;
And makes a roving Mind retire
Within the Bounds of just Desire.
Chearer of Age, Youth's kind Unrest,
And half the Heaven of the blest!
2.1k
The doors of the churches and the schools are closed.
No decent people are on the streets,
Where we see sad crimes and horrible abuses.
Many windshields are broken by badly thrown stones.
Violence rains in the streets and in the corridors;
No dogs or cats dared to vent outside.
A few meager birds, on the branches, stare with disdain
And amazement several thugs and charlatans with masked faces.
It is sad to see these heinous crimes. How awful!
There is a hostile war? One wonders which party will win?
We can hear the voice of an old man coming somewhere
Who shouts faintly, "We are all poor victims, sad tramps,
Who are committing suicide for bad politicians, for misers. "
Not too far, we can see a crazy woman with a close friend,
Both in rags. It's a nightmarish image that proves
That the country has become a hell on earth. On the radio, they say
That some ships of the United States Navy are in the harbor.
What are they doing on our territory? We flee,
Or we do not flee? We cannot. Everyone is in prison.
Violence snows blood on the streets of a tropical country, where fear
Reigns. Children do not dare to play in the streets, where terror
Hisses like snakes, like machine guns of the enraged demons.
No war is civil or civilized; war among the same people is also violent
And nefarious. My God, things are very bad in the streets nearby.
Violence is raining and everyone is crying. Victims are everywhere at bay,
Waiting for the arrival of the good angels, who shall come perhaps in a few months.
Copyright © June 2019, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
This is a translation of the poem La Violence Pleut Dans Les Rues by Hebert Logerie
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 8:27 AM UTC
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
1.9k
The public should be wiser,
our wealth controlled by misers.
Breed more sheep for the pasture,
bow down before the master.
When it comes to worldly knowledge,
you don't need to go to college.
Scare tactics promote the system,
tie us down in neo-serfdom.
An age in great need of regression,
back before the planets oppression.
We all get weaker by the hour,
lets rise up and take back the power.
So let us tear up all the concrete,
we will once again sow the Earth.
Rip the ruling class from their seat,
chaos will bring us our rebirth.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
fingers tapping against your thigh, music note mumblings. subtract everyone else and watch the feeling
m
u
l
t
i
p
l
y
disassemble and reassemble the ensemble and allocate your earnings as earnestly as you can without appearing overeager. overhearing a conspiracy between my lips and your neck. a secret isn't a secret unless you whisper it, so do it, make sure the russians don't hear us as they rush off to give reports on that look I just gave you, the one that is oh so telling. reveling in it. living in the revelation of your skin, pouring down your presence like honey, like sweet molasses dripping thick and sweet, simmering under the sun, glimmering in the water like a jewel, jealous and **** painful and dark and dazzling. beating only in anatomical hearts, out of tune, cacophony and cruel crimson, missing someone not something, left wanting and waning in the light of a lopsided moon, farsighted and fingers that prune in purple light rippling across the walls, willing to travel the planes of your body, embodied travesty traversing the sahara, dunes doomed to be swept away by the wind, breaking and kept away, each grain unable to touch one another more than once, gorgeous enough to be pain, staking your claim on misery before the misers bury it in their own backyards, backwards discovery, a convenient amnesia, believing ruses and runes to decipher in delicate dictum like tricking a language into translating itself.
almost too much of not enough.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
Broken hearts are to be feared.
Mind over matter,
love before trust.
You hate your parents? I hate mine too
Let's bathe in our misendemors
as love
and matter
crumble before our broken-hearted feet.
We trust each other like love never did. This is how we live.
Misers amongst misery.
They all run in fear.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
1117
A Mine there is no Man would own
But must it be conferred,
Demeaning by exclusive wealth
A Universe beside—
Potosi never to be spent
But hoarded in the mind
What Misers wring their hands tonight
For Indies in the Ground!
1.1k
it takes us years
to find out how our body works
what it can feel, smell, touch, see, hear
how we can move its limbs
what hurts it, what makes it feel good
more years are spent
discovering the fathoms of our soul
from murky depths to lofty heights
the scales of feelings, pain, excitement
love, joy, jealousy, despair,
all our nuanced sensitivities
then we explore
the layers of our mind’s infinite potential
its constant work of making sense
from the reports of all our senses
so we believe we understand our worlds,
imagine new ones, phantasize about the old
when after all these years
we harbor some illusion
our long experience might be enough
to straighten all confusion
chances are good we recognize
that all we are is knowledge-misers
we have grown old, but not much wiser
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
Bleeding inside
Like a clock, each tick
A silent sob, converted to noise
Noise that isn’t sound
Isn’t important
All it is
Is relief from the silence.
We want to be loved
We want to be found.
Each of us, alone as we are,
Unique, longing to be the same,
Longing to be together.
We love each other,
Give all we have away
Fall in love with everything
We lay our desperate eyes on --
The hills, the sky, the sea
We forget the spin of the earth
And the scythe of the end
And the burning words has been
For a little while
Consumed in the beauty
Of a soft summer evening
Glowing in the palace of memory,
Locked away for safekeeping.
We are misers of happiness
We bargain for empty joy
All we are, fleeting
Hollow.
Echoing in the winds of time,
Singing and laughing
Silently.
We are unique.
We want to fit in.
To be inside, to be known.
And so we act like we are.
Like everything’s okay.
Like a little girl dresses up like a princess,
Because that’s what she wants to be.
And for a little while, we’re happy.
But then we have to grow up,
Then we have to change, and find
Something different.
But we want something that lasts
Through the years
Through the centuries and eons,
Because our immortal souls
Long for the solid horizon
Of this storm-tossed sea.
What keeps you here?
Why do you keep treading water,
Keep looking around,
Like a ship will come soaring out of the fog
To rescue you?
Do you want to be rescued?
Or is the silence of the summer day
Locked away inside you
Good enough?
Are you good enough?
Is that all you want to be?
I want to be known.
Knowing is not enough anymore
Anyone can know something, can look in.
I want to be inside
Accepted, held
To know what I’ve never known
To walk along a glassy shore
With one who loves me.
To be forgiven, always and completely
Forgiven what I am.
But I don’t know how to say it
It feels heavy and immaterial
Like the silence in between the words
When the words don’t say anything
But suddenly they have meaning.
Between the moments you’re
Totally immersed in the living world
With all those people
Suddenly you stop
Suddenly you’re alive
You breathe
And see
You’re not alone.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 10:20 AM UTC
Each button
Of the elevator
Is lamented with the misers
Of religions rejects
To see the
Face of a man
Forgotten in time is
To look in the mirror
Every waking morning alive
And well until you are no longer
The centipede creeps
Like rain wet fingers in the
In the depths of a mournful jungle,
Swearing that the good times are ahead
Of them if they can just survive this summertime
Entranced, we mention
Gods but in our
Dreams only can
Imagine ourselves
Freud said
Something like that
But he's dead
Long gone
Living in books
To be:
Misinterpreted
Misspelled
Misused &
Manufactured
For future generations
Of blood thirsty swine
Wiping their ***** with
Hundred dollar bills and
Ingesting 50 cent pieces
Just for the hell of it
When the night finally falls
And love subliminally dies
The circus will stay open &
The ferris wheel will continue
To spin and spin and spin
I like the
Way you
Brush your
Hair after the
Nightingale sings
I like the
Way you
Say you
Never hated
Until
You
Met me
I like the
Way you
Make up things
That are
Seemingly true
But when the
Do needs to be done
The only way
You act
Is Blue
And the separation
Of ourselves
Is left
To the open road
The naked toad
The unmentionable node
God's broken big toe
"The Devil made me stub it,"
The friar said to brother John, "We got
To get out of here, we don't
Have very long."
Press my linens with
The soft ****** hands of angels
Let me pray for my own sins
My own low down ***** miseries
As we walk to the top of the hill
We think we are entering the right realm
There are secrets in the stones
In the rivers
Within the leaves and the branches
Of every living tree
Listen
Hear
And learn
To believe
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
Hidden meanings foreshadow the gradient eminence off campus,
Stampless letters to be sent to thine dearest of ones!! Mother's hold thy daughter's, for you've lost your youngest son!!!!
Extensive Colgate frames to cover thy soulgaited plains,
Where fewest of animals hath roamed!!
Your caught in scrimmage,
Still Soo unsure if your found or lost at home!!!
Paceth back to and forth as far as thy walls will take you,
Where reprobate minds will break you,
Where loan sharks will rewrite tunes,
Sharking is their key to Finnish game!!!
They feeleth no Elysium,
Their one to thy flame!!!!!
Trilateral thinking freely turns negative,
Primitive to all known consistencies,
Bleeding at thy gums?
Third world indecently!!!
Misconstrue thine own miserly pull,
Galoot of what's not thine own!!!!!
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
her words laid out before
me like a feast of the fanciful mind
and her inner demons like ravens of the soiled soul
hold themselves at the ready with wary eyes
her words spill in slow honey
smooth on the minds tongue
and leaves an aftertaste like mull wine
leaves one lightheaded and without inhibition
i become a drunkard of her thought
forever lounging near her lips in my mind
waiting for the intoxications to begin
my own words come like the unshaven behemoth
like the fair maidens foul brother
my conversation a meal with dance of the clumsy attempt
each step has a sticky note of scrawled apology attached
like new lovers trying too hard
being overly tender with eachothers words
her heart has spoken its mind
and she feels childish recanting its
written in stone meanings
so she follows
silently behind with her head hanging low
trying to be picture perfect
in the pliant girlfriend role
the inner demons like ravens of my own soiled soul
each moment spent like a misers coin
harpie fingers oiled grip
on the narrow metal
slipping ever so slowly past the eye
each day i sit here and watch as the sun settles
like dust onto the deadpan horizon
each day i pray fervently that i find
a better phrase than the one i live
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 7:18 AM UTC
misers gather coins at the gate
collecting for the grand empire gone to dust
each coin taken in is caressed with greasy fingers
before being gently placed in the old tin cup
like a band of beggars and a sack full of lies
they are grateful for their small fortunes
outside a stranger passes slowly by
in the heavy rain
a light in his angry fist
that shines out dully with his agony's of doubt
to illuminate the shadows where his love has fled
he spends his days pounding on the doors of every home
seeking the room where he locked away his dreams
leaving no stone unturned he treads softly in the boneyard
seeking the places he may have buried his hope
he will hunt thru the night for a dry fingernail to chew
for a small place to hide and a reason to bear the unbearable
and wait for the rain to end
the fallen leaves gathered like a tide at his feet
like a spreading death shroud for the days we called our own
the air tasted like blood and wine
the ***** wind gripped our eyes long into the night
carries on it the tears we wept falling from grace
the ones with hope laid it down and took up the faces of fear
we are the ones who gather up such hope
re-sell it in the border towns and dark soulless motels
fools celebrated in the shadows of the hearts crying out
but they fashion tools to carve new lives out of the old
a veritable army of a hundred lackluster minds
as one they commence to make the mountain into a mole hill
when they are done it will be no bigger to anyone except them
so proud of their wares as seen on tv
they buy stock in the ideal that less is more
and its more or less the end of all things
misers gather coins at the gate of this obscene theater
laughing at the ease of it all
its more or less the story of it all
so ends the poem to end all poems
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
rhetoric conjures up the most
ambivalent compound-nouns,
e.g.:
cultural-relativism...
cultural? relavitism?
you can't do that?
**** yay!
i'll butcher someone
on a monday,
and you end up calling
me a boy-scout on a friday...
**** yeah!
might as well have been
a piece of redied kosher meat,
no?
rhetoric breeds
the most obnoxious sets of ideas,
fickle scheming
bunch of *************
horn-beggars, squatting misers,
the lard fudge,
the insolent brigadiers...
as i said:
a stick: has two ends!
you hit with one,
you get hit by the other!
test me, ************
source yourself as media
lucky with your soros...
go on, i'm waiting to see your
paycheck...
journalism, is fake
throughout, it doesn't mind
whether it's coorporate or
independent...
it's all fake right now...
the only true
journalism is done by people
who recite their own
clamour of life's effort,
those who summon the
angelic-demons who state:
don't convene.
man
was hardly a man when
he convened,
he simply turned into a monkey...
isolated?
well... sorta godly,
best replenished by isolated
examples of exceptional deviance.
thing is...
i can understand moral-relativism,
that abhorrent scale that the greeks
scorned...
but cultural-relativism?
that's a rhetorical ****
it's not even a question,
it's not even a term...
i could fiddle with a pair of
******** and find more sense...
that means jack-shit to me!
50ml of jack daniels
means more to me than
the term "cultural-relavitism"...
manhattan relative
to the amazon rainforest,
is that a relative worth pile
of comparison, or is
that, sarcasm?
i'm too drunk to make a choice...
cultural relativism...
ha ha... ha ha!
is that:
frankenstein = dracula?
you know why i
understand moral relativism?
the concept of ambiguity:
the soldier vs. the murderer...
isn't that an ambiguity?
that's moral relativism for you:
i can't tell the two apart...
the **** is "cultural relativism"?
some sort of bad joke?
a dog's **** worth of concern
for a missing bark?
******** ************ die.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 7:41 PM UTC
Was Ebenezer Scrooge in Dickens'
Christmas Carol purely fictitious?
No, Scrooges live today,
Equally greedy, cold and ambitious.
They represent Scrooge before
He earned our admiration and saw
That human compassion came only after
His ice-cold heart had begun to thaw.
His transformation showed him his former
Cruel disregard for humanity
And let him see that miserliness
Was nothing but a heartless insanity.
Modern Scrooges fail to see
The light of compassion that brightly outshines them.
Their greed prevents them from seeing the moral
Bankruptcy that clearly defines them.
They couldn't care less about
The hard-working and struggling masses.
Their main concern is that each law
That benefits the wealthy passes.
Some of these Scrooges you will find
Working in Congress, eagerly serving
Wealthy donors who give them money
And feel as though they're more deserving.
Creating laws to make their pockets
Overflow: that's their aim.
To them the parasitical poor
Deserve bitter contempt and blame.
One wonders if these greedy misers
Find it hard to resist the temptation
Of saying, "Then why not let them die
And decrease the surplus population?"
“Aren't there workhouses?” and “Aren't there prisons?”
Are what these Scrooges appear to say.
“Concerns of the poor are not our business;
Why can’t they just go away?”
Ebenezer Scrooge was lucky:
His transformation showed him the light.
Will wealthy Scrooges running this country
Discover compassion and be less tight?
-by Bob B (12-28-17)
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 9:09 AM UTC
The ineffaceable stain
Allegorical refrain
Dictates the wily antidotes for a newfound sane
They hector from a distance
Muted but militant resistance
magical hobgoblins the lifeblood of their persistence
Heterodoxy enters the stage
Cognizant of ignominy, a potent repressed rage
Succor sought, corporate media bought
A pyrrhic limelight is certainly not what was sought
I defer to dignified exemplars
I confer with callous company at vapid bars
Concluding thereby the inverse proportionality of authenticity to success
The articulations of divinity imply rigidity
sweltering soul burgeoning with light sweating an evanescent humidity
If blind before, partial and total sight reconstitute the core
omnipresent paparazzi deplores
Past pities insuperable even with pithy witty
Future pieties irrelevant to ineradicable ignominy and purported dignity
Cupid and cupidity must be related
because gold-diggers alerted to my fair share would be elated
Begrudged at every tick, tantalized by a slow torture lurid flit
I cast my ambitions into the fathomless depths
I amass provisions for a restive hibernation, enduring schlep
Redemptive powers yet articulated
Should ease the prospects of being matriculated
But is cloistered suffering an inexcusable plight
When the deep coffers derelict a modest gesture of making grievous inequities once again right?
Must I swim to distant shores
Past the barnacles beneath and the urchins on submerged sand, very sore
Landmines at the beach, pantomimes and their garbled preach
Past scattershot invective fortified by intransigent misers of conscience, the balmy resort out of reach.
Bleak bleats, meek feats, good eats
I think it is about time for a tyrannical psychology to let me off the incapacitating leash, letting me focus on actions rather than on incomprehensible speech
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
One night after work
A bunch of the guys in the call center
Invited me out for drinks/ice cream/book group
Or something
And though I was sure it was a set up
To get back at me
For having squishy shoes and a dry wit
I went along
First we went to a tiger-kitten fight
I advised betting on the tiger
But they bet on the hundred kittens
ranged against the representative of Siberia
But the kittens lazed where they were
And the tiger fell asleep
No fight
We all got our money back
I said I bet we can win at something
And so we went to a horse race
Lined up was a cayuse, an appaloosa, a Claybank Dun, a Tennessee walking horse, even a Przewalski's horse (aka a Dzungarian)
But the equine competitors just stood in their places
And we were told:
"The race isn't to see which one is fastest. It's to see which one is most long-lived."
A crowd stood around
Waiting to see which one would drop first
But we got tired
And went to a football game
Between the El Paso Patrones
And the Gun Barrel City Daggers
Somehow the ball got lost somewhere
Disappeared into the ground
At least some went digging for it
Or floated up in the sky
Some went jumping for it
But a man who wore a size 15 volunteered his left shoe as replacement
And the game resumed
The El Paso Patrones winning by one-fourth of a point
I then bid my workmates good-bye
Surprised I hadn't been set up for some sort of humiliation
And went sauntering somewhere
Until I found size 15 footprints of a man hopping on one foot in the mud
I idly followed them until I came to
the ravine that separates
misers who hoard silver
from seekers who sift through Coke bottles
And figured that if he could jump across
Hopping on one shod foot
I could do the same
Hoping with two
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
The children of liberty’s voice
has been but a mute ripple
on the drums in this march to war,
death
and
de
ca
y.
The voice of that capricious lady’s child could provoke the evolution
of the entire ethos and consciousness of mankind.
****
That baby can sing!
Probably can do all the above
because it never cared about
ruling the world.
It was just trying to walk.
Those impish,
little
monkeys
with hands over their senses,
to speak no
hear no
see no
evil,
were barred entry
to Club Oligarchy.
(They’d make a mess.)
No limb left
to bang
on the drum’s of
society’s rhythm.
So hush now child.
We’re fond of **********
It makes (each) one of us
feel in control.
You’ve never been in control.
In this causal verse
you’re meat in capitalism’s grinder
and we are voting on everything
(and we really mean everything ((but you don’t know it))
you live in.
We’re gonna sit real smooth
as the misers of oppurtunity and wealth,
until our outdated and stagnant values
die with us
and take with us,
more likely
than you’d
like to
be
liev
e
c
i
v
i
l
i
z
a
tion.
If you stay here and close your eyes,
you can work for a minimum wage
that couldn't help much with rent let alone a dream
But if you try really hard at a game of Simon says with ole Sam
you can carry this crippling debt around for a few decades
and get yourself learn’d
and we’ll even give you some ink
scribbled on some dead tree
to wear like a badge
of your pedigree training.
It may even get you that first option.
So you can pay what is owed
to your crippling
defeat.
I mean debt.
Sorry, we’ve rolled up the ladder for the rising tide.
But “social security”
TOTALLY
has your back when you want to die,
like us.
(Really, it will be the same and we’re good for it… promise.)
All of you
do not pass go….
Actually, stay in this square and try not to go to jail.
Oh and you owe us two hundred dollars this time round.
There are some circles to be shushed.
And Sammy means business,
really
that is what he’s all about.
When you go to ****** the free
make sure there is no way out.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 12:21 AM UTC
God has created women with tenderness and delicacy
The entire world is bound to take care and to agree
She came out of the ribs of man and a part of heart is plea
So it is obligatory to extend all respect and to know and see
Women have sharp sixth sense like few selected called leaders
So as a matter of fact we should not be biased but be the pleaders
No one else has quality to create but the women which glitters
Men should accept the dignity honour respect and shouldn't be misers
Women are mixture of love and beauty which continue to cherish
In hour of trial and tribulation she never leaves someone to perish
World ows its strength and beauty to the beauty and strength of women
She wears the crown of creation being elegant and great with devotion
Salute to all women who create persevere and bring peace and prosperity
They are the beacon of light from home to home and country to country
For their refinement of sixth sense I am proud of but definitely just envy
From the core of my heart I appreciate their services in all relations openly
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC