An Atrophied Globe Poem by RAJAT GHOSH

Narrow are the minds, so are souls,
Ultra-modern smiles, smelling fouls;
The young buds swell like varicose vein,
Butterflies're sick, inebriated with pain.

The red rose had murdered its hue
Where are the buzzing bees few?
Yes! , It's a sick rose of gross garden,
None rejects the century's burden!

The toiling Sun has dried the stollen soil,
Who's playing hide and seek under concrete foil?
O! I want to be buried alive and then I would die,
The grass is singing dormant with anxious sigh!

The Globe is exhausted with atrophied muscles
O Doctor! Inject the peaceful poisonous oracles!