Butterfly
A Anjandev Roy
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Strange butterfly!
That can not fly
With the burden of ugly clay of the modern world,
It is poor and sick,
Limping with its dull and colourless wings
And waiting for its doom.
Beauty is a lost memory
Which is impossible to remember for it now,
The gentlemen come and see it scornfully,
They spit in it,
Tears come in its grievous eyes,
With a broken heart it dies,
They throw it in the dustbin.
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