Who assigned my soul, to such a devil
Of whose best intents, spite I smell?
From high heavens, of a freedom
It has dragged me, to jail of a well.
Nobody knows me; I know nobody
Only my both ears, receive what I yell.
By groping hands, upon these objects
Tinge of their colors, I can never tell.
Fruits of my search, I reap at the end:
Pain of the fingers, that always swell.
Where are the buyers, of crops of ache?
Such a product, can I ever sell?
I am so amazed, at turn of events
To this dull abode, why at all I fell.
How low I will fall, from where I am
No philospher, can ever foretell.
Still, I recall, what master whispered:
“Chehree don’t grieve; one day you get well”.
November 06, 2006
Ottawa
