Saplings

Thou growest tender plants

In the garden of thy heart

Ah, Guard thy garden well,

Lest the poison weed

Of awful apathy

Raise it's hideous head

And choke thy tender saplings

To a slow, starving death

Pity the suffering, dear,

Be it of body or mind

Wretched are the sufferers

Be it their own making

Pain is pain, brother,

Though, it perhaps be,

Thine own dear hands

That struck and wounded

In the dense darkness

... And The Locust Egg

And need I speak, brother

Of the deadly pest of malice ?

A single egg, thou nurturest

Breeds swarms and swarms

Of giant deadly locusts.

Drop it ! Drop the egg

As thou wouldst a viper

That thou perchance picked up.

Saplings : Sick S..... gave a packet of toffee. Commented to A...

sick are sick though the illness be their making. T.C.Ist year,24.11.85.

Egg : 25.11.1985, 7 p.m. room.