An extreme change in climate.
When the wind is slapping at,
Our internal and external faith.
It seems like the clime is a brat.
Wind flew my ardor in its chat,
Each blow pulled me out of gate.
Erratic biffs of humiliations I ate.
Unwittingly I seated on same mat,
The frustrating zoo where I sat.
Towards loved hole, I ran as a rat,
But the wind chasing me as a cat.
A small poetry on the 'International Day Of Poetry'
