The feelings it bore
The thoughts it had
My past laid in it.
The dreams happy and sad.

It made no difference.
Was life elated or in dole.
The mere lost words, to the paper
Had all flown out from my soul.

My haps-mishaps, my likes-dislikes,
My love’, enmity my reflections’n past.
All with small drops of ink on paper.
All to ash and smoke have they last.

It was a void temper, and
Above all the fate’s discourage
Brought all which my sentiments
To the stinking Municipal bin of garbage.

My loving teacher, she quoth;
“Realize will, when up you grow.
What have you done, you fool
Would I have kept it with myself
What you’ll do, if I had known so.”

What have I done? My heart asks.
And my sight, tears they bear.
Might not I loose the power of poetry
Always since then, my mind fears.

Can’t I get back my rhymes.
Myself and for friends, which were the verse
O! my pen, nothing can I do
Besides myself and fate to curse

Never break the life of your pen
To the temper and poet I warn
For poetry is your life.
From which your singing dreams are born.