Revolutions are so many,
Which break the thicket dreary
By committing deeds bloody,
By insinuating speeches fiery,
Resulting in deadly eventuality.
The Yellow metal soberly,
Has turned the stones briskly,
By rising gradually ,
To shoot up suddenly,
In a buzzing move graphically,
To an unassuming level sporadically.
Revolutions have an end,
As they have a set trend,
Which is exhibited in a brand,
Of high vibrancy and demand,
While slowly the tension disbands,
Settling to a subdued strand
Will the same behaviour be seen?
In the golden sheen.
Which emits an opulence clean,
Leading to a grand mean,
Masquerading a royal queen,
Resigning to a modest lean.
Today it races ahead,
Tomorrow it will behead,
But the thirst will spearhead ,
A demanding price spread ,
Soliciting a tumultuous thread,
That of an imposing surge dread
Meenas Poems 