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Poetry By: Shweta

Country life in its primeval mode? I guess, so.

Submitted:Jul 11, 2011    Reads: 113    Comments: 21    Likes: 7   


The Country Life

Lush green and velvety;

Grasses spread like a mat.

Trees stand tall touching the sky;

Their shadows in the sunny day,

Are even taller and darker.

Horses galloping in the fresh air;

I could see some cattle grazing,

Sheep loitering and teasing.

A farmhouse in the distance.

God knows who lives there?

Who lives there?

Oh, my freaky mind, wonders.

May be the farmer?

May be the owner?

Uncle Jay told me, there leaves an old man;

To everyone he seems to be a crank,

Owns a large farm with poultry and cattle all around.

He eats the turkeys and the chickens;

And sell the horses and the dogs in the market.

He could have been the richest man in the country;

But a man with such a twisted disposition;

And worst faculty for revenue management.

Somewhere far away, a train whistles.

Does it cross the country, Uncle Jay?

Yes, but never halts for the country folks;

Mrs. Simpson has a kitten, dark brown;

She feeds it macaroni dipped in milk,

She is a lonely lady, with children all faraway;

And a loving husband who had passed away.

On the Halloween night, she gave huge chunks;

Of cheese and cake to the poor kids.

It's getting darker, with sun setting in the west;

Now shadows falling on the opposite sides,

With faint gray and subliming to the darkness,

Horses tied in their stables;

Cattle and sheep being hurdled into their shelters.

Dim light peeping through the window panes;

Someone somewhere is cooing an elegy;

May be in the memory of his beloved.


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