The precious thing


Around a crowded street,

There is a man sitting covered in a blanket rotten,

Looks like a beggar,

But he isn’t interested when anybody has anything to offer,

Instead he hides himself further,

Towards the corner,

When anyone comes near,

He bears hell lot of fear,

Holding something in his hands,

Blood is dripping from the scratches of his pants,

What is that thing that he holds?

What is there so precious he never unfolds?

Maybe there is some golden brick that he has,

Maybe he’s not a beggar or someone else,

Or maybe a secret agent,

Yes! Maybe that’s why he bears that ugly scent,

Though his face is dull but eyes are bright,

Yet it seems he cries almost every night,

Someone one day tries to find out the secret that he has,

Tries to dig out his precious trash,

And to his surprise,

It was nothing precious that he hides,

It was just his heart that he keeps away from everyone,

‘Coz he doesn’t want it to be broken,

Lots of seasons of lots of years he has seen it all,

Anyone who ever came made him fall,

So he is so insecure,

And because there is no cure,

For a broken heart,

He used to keep it secure and apart,

So that no one can ever come again near to it,

And dare to make it split.


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