The heart of a man is a bedlam
It’s a dance floor of chronic diseases.
Each emotion is lunatic,
A wayfarer dying at last, running after
A street car named desire.
The world is an illimitable place,
And in there the poor man is
Like a speck of dust in the sea shore,
Seeking a fallacy called life,
To sleep for ever, before he retires,
No need to foster a secret hope,
No use to show a derailed temper,
Everything ends when the final breath
Is arrested by the Almighty!
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