I am hanged one hundred and eight times a day
I am hanged one hundred and eight times a dayHanging from the gallows
The cart I'm in now
Is it going anywhere at all
No, it's not going anywhere
Still, I stayed in the car
Why
Because of the days that have passed in the
Amrit Mahotsav with
There's nothing else I can do
At the end of the day, he came down from the gallows.
I have to go somewhere
For example, to bite into a cooked drumstick to give
Cauliflower heart should be placed in the body of cabbage
otherwise, the Mahabharata cannot be saved
For example, to say half the body with a thick tongue
Would be
Here's the pickle of the clan, eat it
Again with a tap on the cheek of the watershed
The other half of the body was pulled closer to the new Brajbuli
Must be taught
Then whenever I feel
It's flowing through my body
The confused waves of the peacock and the loincloth
Dark Guitar
Whenever I see
So much greenery in the grass, so much speed, so much
Names of the injured
Then I'll slap the dried up rain and say
Now turn off all the speed
The road will think if the speed stops
What else do I need?
That's the mud stove next to the door.
Those dried rose petals in the fold of the diary
Can anyone say
How old are they?
Therefore, the body was dragged down from the gallows.
Sitting on a cart that doesn't reach anywhere
I want to reach out
In the midst of unspoken water-forest-land
Where in the afternoon light
Sitting on the branch of the acacia tree, whistling
A lone bird
Poetry by sinha murari
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Written on 2026-09-03 at 07:24
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