A Wooden Table...
V Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Why the old trees are felled,
To be the stock in the furniture mart,
When the stout stem is sliced,
Piece by piece to see the worth,
The one below my fertile hands,
Fondly handling and nourishing my pokes,
Once upon the time it must have had the buds,
So the fragrant flowers are bloomed,
Everywhere on its varnished surface,
When the right one sits beside its,
Worn out dreams, the nectar may flow,
Out of control from the silent trees.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş