An aversion erupts and vexes my whole,
in and out, out and out.
What not have I got? Right from a doll
to play with to an alive nymph . A hut
Dilapidated, now looks a palace incarnated.
Yet dissatisfaction, a pain of void of nothingness.
A ragpicker, bent down, sitting tight
beneath a tree, flinging off his goatish load.
He heaves a sigh, to enjoy dissolution.
Him I envy ! For he has shaken off his 'intimate' burden!
O His Majesty, I feel, cares little for the purse
he lives on.
A free soul, least concerned with what's bagged,
For his life and soul are not conflated.
Soul yearns for beatitude by denying
Earthly load.
A ragamuffin despises, though awhile, his
Bag of life.
And listens to his call of soul–
Why should I, for so long, craving for only gold?
Not, for a single moment, I've relieved my self
From the soul-less tons of joy to my help .
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