Emotion has no chance to penetrate such wisdom. After the puppet show / the nest was calling... when a writing put its step to move on the space in such a way, simply a silent cry from deep deep of the human life overwhelmes the reader. Mathematics, calculation....alls are bogus dust dancing with puppetiers nail.
But the consolation also runs with the spirit with a sense of immortality:
After birth there was no death of my / rhyme. The flesh has gone, only
the burning bones are lying / on bed of roses.
Regards, - Pranab (Apoet Bangla)
http://www.poemhunter.com
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