The Barren Land.

Confined to the four walls
Is my little friend's morning.
His midday, his pastime
His teachers' notebooks devour;
And the idiot box is his afternoon's playmates!

The Moon calls him no more;
The green grass, the golden dust don't greet him now.

The Moon fades her glory!
The green grass has lost its colour!
The dust is converted into ammunition!

Who calls the child?
Who beckons him to set the dust on fire?

by Sudipta Bhattacharyya

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