Poetry

January 14, 2016 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

By

Rahul Mall

 

 

Draughtland

 

 

You ask me to write of love
And I flick my dry pen
In hope for some ink to pour.

 

Monsoon’s over, and it’s
Winter spell in November.
We are in my drought struck land.

 

A flower still gay, smiles
Yours Seeking acquiesce my
Acquitted cacti causes sores.

 

You hope for autumn
The Month of February.
Future is present that unrolls.

 

Baby, take your flower away
To thorns trimmed roses.
It’s drought struck here
Where poor farmers suicide.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rahul Mall

Rahul Mall is a passionate poet, writer and an artist who hails from the Kathmandu Valley, capital of Nepal. Currently residing in Kolkata, India he has recently completed his Bachelors in Commerce.He believes that a paintbrush and a pen are the greatest weapons known to mankind.

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