Monday 25 September 2017

Poetry 2017 Shortlist, Ishita Shreshtha


The only grass that rooted me,
They plucked it off the ground ground.
When I lay there, withering away,
They didn't utter a sound.
I escaped the world, in the silent storm ;
They became the gloomy mob.
They failed to understand Life and Death - -
That my roots were never gone.

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