Those scripts crickets read out
en masse at night have run out.
For them, may be, these recitals;
A sort of somber remembrance.
And at night, before every supper,
they dish out a little of their share
for all those departed camaraderie:
a tribute to those olden times.
It’s uncertain; who all would come by,
and recite and go away. Don’t know.
Lovely woods got destroyed
It happened, the other day too.
Now, the muse of poetry
In humans looks lifeless;
their verses stale, and their words?
It’s ages since they went rusting.
No matter whatever we utter
It all goes stale sooner.
Still, the crickets out there
give no break to their prayer.
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