Missed my chance
The globe of fire poured its wrath
When, she blew like an “August” breeze
And all the withering flora blossomed
Took to flight, all the weary geese
She smelled of untamed ambergris
Her stroke that of gentle misty rain
Then she rushed into a hasty retreat
Leaving the world in gruesome pain.
Jibendu Narayan Mazumder
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