The seven days pass
with the sun doing its duty
more than required,
shining with a scorch
sweltering , burning
with a vigour,
Nothing much to do
I relax with a book
reading the pages,
I am unable to get involved
as exhaustion grips. eyes close
in a slumber.
The cook fearing the epidemic
has gone home,as public transports
cease to ply the rest remain at home.
Doors are locked, no milkman,
newspaper vendor, or postman
to sou d the bell,
the house remains quiet.
while the silence is turns
into an uneasiness,
the withdrawals propose
a scare not experienced
for centuries.
War and its atrocities,
agitation and unruliness
create a furore,
the spread of a virus
a health hazard terrible
leaves the world in chaos.
Meenas Poems 