The world moves in its circumference with you as no body to recon with
Cares three hoots for your miseries and plights notwithstanding your woes and sorrows
And bothers the least for your pangs and seclusions that engulf you off and on
In a sequence that mars your gayeties for the day and tomorrows.
No medicines nor medicos to respite the agonies otherwise on-going
No magic wand to play some miracle against ill happenings
No repairs to an erosion, nor any relief
Nor there is succour to something howsoever saddening.