I know the dream for dead of revival,
The shorn of pain from life shut my fiscal.
The idle race spoilt the loam, ploy arval;
Worn the spring off, besorting vatical.
Sought to flame the fay, chimera nival;
Red out of my heart, hurt so critical.
Whom to blame? River humps her own rival;
Forlorn hope, down and out in my jacal.
At once I wake up past the vile portal;
He shouts, "The sphere is on weekly rental."
Past to present future, stung in total;
Ebbing with elixir heal the mortal.
Hope is His present, nothing is vital.
Ask rose to pose less one or more petal?
(New Delhi, 17/12/2017)
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