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All The Pages Have Been Turned Over
Who can go on turning the pages of the diary,
All the letters scatter like pearls,
How should I come to know now where was the place of these words,
Have you ever seen someone with his heels on his head,
What should I do, all the pages of life have turned over,
I canít think of their place or arrangement,
How can one take rest when there are so many snakes under his pillow,
How is it possible for some one to walk on when there are so many Scorpions in
How is it possible to live in the past,
Who can imprison himself behind the iron bars of time,
How is it possible for someone to bathe in his own blood every day,
How is it possible to drown in the sea of fire every moment,
It is not possible to blacken oneís forehead with the black ink,
And to become the part of the past with the turned over pages.
To a Friend.
There are the few line on my hand,
Which have come to my share,
I thought that you have been forgotten,
But at the bottom of my mind,
Under the layers of many curtains,
Your name is still hidden,
I made a thorough search,
But these curtains have stuck,
Like the flakes of cotton,
To my blood,
If I separate these flakes,
My mind begins to bleed.
The bloods of wounds begins to flow,
From my eyes and all the pictures,
Are coloured with blood,
Then I canít remember anything.
I canít think of anything,
A constant agony is trampling my heart,
And the realization that you are not there,
My friend you are not there.
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