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.
ফেসবুক দিয়ে আপনার মন্তব্য করুন
Spread the love

You may also like...

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

কপি করার অনুমতি নেই।