I’m tired of being tired
Do i have to turn the pages?
It’s morose it’s exhausting,
Or do i have to burn it?
Life is hard to balm stroke;
Rage wind blows all seasons.
Its spinning wheels stop
At my door forlorn forsaken.
At night, she laments lorn howls
Bursts them on my front:
Sky cries, greens faint
Leaves fall, roses die
(Lights were away fading.
Let them worn a mourning dress-
Their so longing spring never coming.)
It takes the wind out of my sails. Taking
My candle in the wind. Listen!
Indifferent frozen air is pricking.
The candle, the chill wind blowing…
But how? Must i bow to her vow?
How do i have to turn the pages?
Or how do i have to burn it up?
But if I have burnt it up,
The ashes, the left and all what remains
Would pen n reuse them as an ink.
And what is burned will reborn
In other forms rather distort.
Would tear my sky, my roses would die,
Would faint my greens , my leaves would fall.
Again and again on my brand new pages.
Soul all soulless waterfall.
All the white has been absorbed and eaten;
Nothing been soothed, all perished.
Unreached to racine them out.
Engraved in living memories,
Make living hardly hard.
Poisoin the air and tasting
Life and death alike.
Copyright so called poetry of Biba