Across roads and pathways,
They lay plaintive; cursed in agony;
Never to speak up again.
They lie in various knots and often jut,
Protruding out from a hated circumference,
Some lie peacefully asleep,
Beneath apple wood and elms.
The agile, the swift and the ones emboldened,
Seethe with rage, but only with reckoning to hindsight
They arise in apt predicaments, the mudpits.
Tiny huge, clumsy and shallow,
Blemished pretty faces-
With nothing more than a jarred descend,
The hurt the ones less wary and nimble,
With ruthless intent.
Only when the blasé time draws its curtains,
Will they stop, with ceased recurring,
For now at least, the mudpits continue....
(c) SANGBID KUNDU