Poetry by Harekrishna Dey

Pressure cooker

I pick it up like a grain in the bowl of my mind. Numerous pains like sorrow, suffering, deprivation and suffering.

I washed my way with uncertain footprints.

The mill of life is grinding in Bella, Round like a loaf of bread I fell in the cold pan,

I became stiff like a heatless cork,

In the cityless kitchen of the pressure cooker.

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