We often think of the past,
and lose the present so good.
Collecting betrayed memories - at last,
spoiling present in useless brood.
The past is a fountain dry,
of which no love springs forth.
The present is not to lament or cry,
which in future is of no worth.
The past like old stones,
crumble down to the earth.
Like the futile sobs and moans,
which die readily after birth.
Prasenjit©1997-2012
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