Everything of mine you have swept away,
The laugh, the talk, the heart, the sense
And of course the self-regard now.
It is useless to ask you for anything
As no more magic left in withered words
So, unable to justify why and how.
So, so, so and so, I stand speechless,
A beggar at your door, lacking existence,
With a pallid and feeble bow.
Than to myself, I give credit, more to you.
Should not you then think once more,
Before saying me – ‘Chow’?
Seedling of trust; you dared to sow in desert.
So either, you had to endure to irrigate
Or must not ponder to sow.
Further, maybe better you discern me.
So concluded by you – “well for nothing,
Just conceive the poetry now.”