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On Meeting

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English Poetry

A spring bloom

always gives

hope and joy to me.

 

A hope—

to fly

like a butterfly.

 

A joy—

to smile

like a baby’s eyes.

 

But

Spring

turns gradually

in Autumn

making me

sad and blue.

 

Is it the cycle of Time

or some type of democracy

In this temporal world?

 

Spring—

if comes,

never goes

in the world of psyche

where a bloom

opens ever

and closes never

on meeting the BLOOM.

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