Statue redpaper

The statue |

The statue |

By Preeti Vyas |

There he rides on a horse,

On the corner of the city’s park,
All worn out dark,
Still shining up with sparks,

He sees the squirrels,
Squandering the dandelions,
He stares the boy on the wheelchair,
Amongst his companions,

He feels relieved that,
He is not alone hampered,
But then empathy trolls him,
In his mind, curbing him clambered,

He gets the rushing blood,
As youth run for him, in the marathon kludge,
Thought that occurs rarely,
It gives him pleasure,
He feels so young,
Unwrapping his treasures,

For once,
He was a soldier in the armor,
The pride of the battalion,
A price charmer,

Beneath the iron sheath,
He covers a century,
Full of clashes,
And a buried treasury,

He always wonders,
Who will own the four-leaved clove,
Who will listen to his saga,
Find his wealth,
Hidden in the dark beneath him,
Yet to shimmer its glow.

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