My joy knows no bounds
And leaps with joy
In seeing,
Viewing the waterhen,
The white-breasted waterhen
Calling at dusk.
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An American girl,
She is herself golden brown and glistening,She herself a gem or a jewel,There is no need of giving herOrnaments,A white American beauty.She herself a roseWhy to give her a rose?
The man
OnA buffaloMay beHeA ministerOf India.IndiaOf the unpadhs,The unreadAnd ganwars,RusticsIs the other sideOf the picture.
The wintry sun dispelling the darkness and gloom
The hamlets and thorps awaking and arising fromWith thin wrappers over the bodyShivering with cold and coming out into the golden sunshine to bask.
Miscaller, what’s your name,
What do you do,What the purpose of yours?Do you want to collect any information from,What the intention behind,Why do you ring time and againAnd cut that?What do you want,Why are you so,Sometimes after ringing you,Say you,Why did you send the missed callAllegedly?Miscaller, if you are short of money,Ask me and I shall give you money,But…
I shall come,
With the bunches of flowers,Let,Let the flowery springCome,Come to.