The Morning Messenger
P Pradip Chattopadhyay
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The most awaited,
fresh baked
is what he brings
on my table
each morn.
I sip with tea
the crispy fare
that’s soon forgotten
in the mad rush.
He’s the bearer
of my daily habit
slipping thru my door
what’s soon to find way
into trash-bin.
He’s a faceless guy,
the harbinger of good and bad
that when himself dies
makes no news!
Bu şiiri puanla
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