Mr. N.N.Pal
Someone averts me to trade,
The path having rows of huts,
All step other lanes in stead,
Deftly avoid as place of sluts.
A sinless mind takes me there,
A mother-child -dyad I see,
She milks the child, baby-care,
Flower, as if, swings in glee.
A 'Basti' of Cathouse squalid,
Scornfully take all of you,
Nature redacts natural deed,
Act too pure to come your view.
Conch sounds there in every eve,
All chant name with full heart,
Oblation so pure as you give,
Is it temple or soil of slut ?
Triad of babe, mother and God,
Make all place pure and fair,
Brightened up by himself Lord,
Though they earn dibs by form-share.
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