Poetry Collection by Prabhat Verma
My poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song which either arises from a bleeding wound, or from a smiling face.


He who sings the songs of success,
Has slept the long sleep of failures,
Has lived with the silence of fatigue,
Has married the beast named toil,
Has buried comforts in hard work's soil.

Only them sings he, the sweet symphony,
Rejoices over his huge acrimony,
Spreads his wings and flies to the sun,
Mixing work & play them becomes fun,
All the jobs in no time are done.

Sedate me to elevate my senses to,
The dizzy altitudes of madness personified,
Even in the desolate dignity of ground reality,
Let me possess epilepsy of vision,
Beyond the plethora of constellations of verity.



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