(1340) It patharer stupe
With bricks and stones in a heap,
My mind, it got buried
In a deeply dark cavity.
Never seeing the grass green,
Or the lines of beauty on leaves,
Lone and thronged by inert things,
In what form shall I find relief?
The human moves just like machine,
Chief watchword being to earn money.
Many a game of insincerity
Stands in the way, hard to exceed.
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Why then have I been thrust into this material world?
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