The poor they suffer, in a world so rich, With empty bellies, and a constant itch, To find a way out, of their endless plight,
By M Anandaraj about a year ago in Poets
The rich man sits, in his mansion tall, With wealth and comfort, at his beck and call, But what of the burden, that wealth can bring,
The butterfly flits, through the summer air, With wings so delicate, and a beauty so rare, A symbol of change, and of nature's grace,
The beggar sits, by the busy street, With a cup in hand, and tired feet, A forgotten soul, in a world so fast, A life so hard, that never seems to last.
The elephant strides, with a regal air, Its trunk so strong, its tusks so rare, Its wrinkled skin, a map of its life, Tales of its journey, without any strife.
The night sky is a canvas, black and wide, With stars that twinkle, like fireflies, A sprinkle of magic, a hint of stardust,
The world moves fast, a constant race, We rush from place to place, with little grace, The pressure builds, the stress, the fray,
I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-grey, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day.
The plane leaves fall black and wet on the lawn; the cloud sheaves in heaven’s fields set droop and are drawn
‘Summer is coming, summer is coming. I know it, I know it, I know it. Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,’
Oh, the melody of life, a symphony so sweet, With notes that dance, and rhythms that beat. A song for every moment, a tune for every mood,
Oh, the power of dreams, a journey so real, With limitless possibilities, that we can truly feel. A world without limits, where anything can be,