Vasu Sharma
Practice that maketh anger go...
Truth be told in my tired muse...
So much it is for the filth beneath...
I vie for some to pay my dues...
Says who there is no peace in me...
The stones don't budge, and so the trees...
Just that calm is the sense to see...
Rivers bellow as I hug my knees...
Trying could be the feeling said...
Crying must be the valleys dead...
And No! You're wrong to so perceive...
My skin might not, my heart does crease...
Wretched is the nature's flow...
And I have sure not stooped as low...
As you do think the goon I am...
When I just stop and wait a breeze...