And a hundred minutes may not help me when they have turned,
For here I am with inspiration filled-
But nobody to appreciate it or to be thrilled.
A hundred doors and a hundred opportunities,
All shut and buried deep under big cities,
Must it always be so true-
That second chances are so very very few?
A hundred lives and a hundred bones-
All victims to a stranger's verbal loans,
Shattered, all shattered in flesh and moans,
And goaded to silence in their living zones.
Hundreds and hundreds of living souls,
In whom emotions are but moles,
Death tunes guide these living souls-
Into darker and darker dismal holes.
-Doalshree. K. Mysoor
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