Slurping on an ultra-emancipated thought,
Thousands of miles away in my Humble Hut;
Though shackled I, yet, hear many rhymes,
Of the rightful rise and smiles of Mr. Trump.
There’s a blissful scent of any original true,
Not contrived, nor outmoded that; to be renewed;
Oh! The Poor Poet I’m who mere plays flute,
Juggling betwixt truth or dare, sliding in chute.
I’m stuck in time, or, time stuck itself with me,
As Clauses I read; I agreed, & also disagreed!
Regional were, yet, globally sowed were seeds,
In my Humble Hut, I ripened with all leased beads.
Evolution never makes anyone to win or lose!
In my humble hut, shackled I, yet, clauses I can’t rebuke! 😊
© Pranav Chaturvedi 2024