Are you the children of the forest?

Else what are you doing amid

The bare, old, ghost trees?


Orphans you are not,

For, there is no orphanage here.

Multiple resorts, hotels, guest-houses

Steal your grace.


You are not Blake’s Chimney Sweepers,

Nor midnight harlots’ blasted woes.

You are the darling buds

Of some wretched forest women.

You crawl under the scented foliages.


Don’t wear woe, children.

Why do you?

And bees buzz, flies fly, birds sing,

And wild flowers sway for you.


Don’t put woe, dear children.

Why do you?

For you the forest breathes

Twigs bend,

Leaves rustle,

Creepers twirl

The sun tremors,


Fogs swathe serpentine lakes.

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