Commom Reality
R
Rahman Henry
0
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Somewhere, in a solitary, a beetle
No one knows why it's badly injured, overturned- -
and unable to be returned or eased
No sound produces and reaches to the ears of
This eart from it's
Screamed sufferings- -
It's nothing but the poem;
There's created the real poetry.
No one's hands, pens or papers
Can't compose it.
Just the impersonal Calenda
Recorded it in black and white: `Twenty First Century'
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