VERACITY OF MIRROR
There is dust
And grime on the silver,
Polished glass and on the walls,
Of the room in which it is
It is saying it’s own story.
I tried to clear that dust,
Which were the proofs of my silent absence,
From the affairs of this world,
I stood in front of it,
And now my soul was transparent,
All those things, which were inside me.
A very low decibel voice came,
If I can live with so much dirt,
With so much comfort,
Then why can’t this piece of glass?