Subjectivity and Debris by Sushant Thapa

Time slips like sand,

My sunrise sets

Leaving me wanting more.                                  

All those lovely words

I wish to read.

In the deep woods

The nightingale sings

Of freedom.

The night hour is rough,

And darkness sprouts


Until and unless

I gaze at the stars

I do not feel the consolation.

The human subject is wasted

Like the debris, but

My subjectivity is

Of the beautiful sunset.

Let the world be a learning garden

To not lie buried

Under the debris,

Of time and war.

Darkness also sprouts

The morning.

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