The killing of croaking frog

The cacophony lures the crowd

The hands jarring for a halt

The jolted tongues dives in.

The fledgling words,

Shackled to graves.

Well let me dive into the crust of mine,

And pump out the blood of revolt.

The bull’s leg is chained at last

And wrest’s down the dust,

With breath of pride,

Which denied to rust!

The dust face and heavy breath,

Of wrecked leg sublime.

The owl’s of modest soul,

The priest of darken sights

Moulds it’s wings and fly at the back;

And the bull of labour be born to being.

My fallen tongue still has it’s strings.

Killing of the croaking frog,

Won’t silent my being!




Author – Sonali Gupta
Gumla, Jharkhand, India.

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