Trudging on a monsoon morning, in the meadows
Where there is no sun yet and no shadows
The still dewdrops are smiling
While I, on the grass was whiling
Fresh grass was sprouting
Old leaves were falling down
And my mind was weaving a questions gown
Why is all this change and why is it so strange?
When the leaves get old, will they fall in the cold?
Does grass come each day?
And the dewdrops just fade away?
The flowers blossom in the morn
While in the evening, they seek sojourn
On the branches of plants before they fall
“Your life is done” they get a call
But what are we and what am I?
What we do, all day through?
Just think and just write
Of what’s wrong and what is right
The writer is killed, the poem is torn
And before his funeral, another is born
Where there is no sun yet and no shadows
The still dewdrops are smiling
While I, on the grass was whiling
Fresh grass was sprouting
Old leaves were falling down
And my mind was weaving a questions gown
Why is all this change and why is it so strange?
When the leaves get old, will they fall in the cold?
Does grass come each day?
And the dewdrops just fade away?
The flowers blossom in the morn
While in the evening, they seek sojourn
On the branches of plants before they fall
“Your life is done” they get a call
But what are we and what am I?
What we do, all day through?
Just think and just write
Of what’s wrong and what is right
The writer is killed, the poem is torn
And before his funeral, another is born
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