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On Meeting
English Poetry |
A spring bloom
always gives
hope and joy to me.
A hope—
to fly
like a butterfly.
A joy—
to smile
like a baby’s eyes.
But
Spring
turns gradually
in Autumn
making me
sad and blue.
Is it the cycle of Time
or some type of democracy
In this temporal world?
Spring—
if comes,
never goes
in the world of psyche
where a bloom
opens ever
and closes never
on meeting the BLOOM.