The Cut

In last no end there ends,

Who end may die unsound.

Retire words of action, this!

Let hear a sound, let die whole.

Here a step ends, a begins,

Three times let me decide.

All spoken once heard twice,

Twitch one to another.

Distinct pages stacked,

Upon destiny destined.

Let oppose the tide,

Set sinking stride aside.



Neither words, pen, and paper,

Crust paint in this dark forest.

Over brush tired wrinkled hands,

Wish to retire, bent helpless.

Midst summer and winter pride,

Mild quest shelling simmers aside.


Let the battle decide, this!

Let run quilt through the mind,

Let prayer answer conscience,

Let rain let wet.

Let breath or,

Let cut, die altogether.

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Mere Dreams

The Man of Dawn

Yetesh Sharma