Amita Mishra
No endearing book,
No kind people,
No beautiful flower,
Neither a fascinating garden,
Nor the sweet-smelling breeze.
Quite often even the hands don’t
Glow with the mustard of Heena,
Sometimes one gets nothing,
Nothing happens that,
Can cheer up.
No feasts no celebrations,
No processions pass by,
Sometimes those Lovers,
That used to meet in Spring,
Their footsteps become hard to find in Autumn.
