by adhip ghosh
Ingratitude.thou art the amnesia
Of man's conscience!burrowing serpentine
Into his goodness that thou feedst on fine;
Spoil it to shreds like dreams of Arabia,
Till man is dim-faced into hysteria.
What pleasure derivst thou,what joys art thine?
What Satan works in thee,Devil in shine?
Goodness asks thee to answer,Lucretia!
But thou,methinks,aren't born to ruin my heart,
Art thou,Ingratitude?'tis time to say-
For fallen though I am,yet trust in thee
That thou shalt one day show thy native clay
To dispel the clouds that make me curt
Against thee,please shake thy mask off,I pray.
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- December 15, 2008 3:15 pm
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