Harish Pradhan /It hurts
It hurts
It is all colourful The lush green hills The swaying Meadows The silver streams The wild flowers
The heart is full of Pure blood as if drawn From nature fresh
You and me And the songs of love The music of moon The symphony of stars
Then the agony of Drifting away with Strange sense of Hurting memories
The tear drops Swell and swell And then An ocean between us
Copyright. Harish Pradhan
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