A DAWN SERENE

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A  dawn in winter,

And the sun’s first rays

Glowed the stubble-field.

 

Yonder a hundred herons,

Milk white,

Basked on a treetop.

 

From fig leaves

Dew sparkled.

 

Street deserted,

And the Bhutan hills,

Sprouted heads yet.

 

The sky dull,

And from some huts,

Smoke frayed.

 

Veiled women plucked

Flowers,

And crooned.

 

Plotted orchards,

And pumpkins

Hung in plenty.

 

Birds flicked,

And others parched

On electric wires.

 

The forest, grim,

Sullen, stood,

Bare, naked.

 

Don’t pine for

Date trees, yellowed fields,

Feast on the arrayed nuts,

Cabbage-heads,

And turnips, tomatoes.

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Abu Siddik

Abu Siddik

It's all about the unsung , nameless men and women around us. I try to portray them through my tales. I praise their undying suffering and immaculate beauty. And their resilience to life's vicissitudes, oddities, and crudities I admire. They are my soulmates who inspire me to look beyond the visible, the known, the common facade of the educated and the intellectuals.

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