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All English Sonnets


Narinder is no more, boundless treasure
Is lost to Dogri language. Without pleasure
And hyperbola I tell this happenstance;
In Nineteen fifty five- poesy- bitten,

I met him just for once and perchance
I handed him a poem, I had written.
And what he did to it, is the measure,
With which I judge his greatness at my leisure.

He read it in my presence seriously
And with a question mark, comma, word-
Corrected it and thus , mysteriously-
A pristine beauty on it he conferred.

But who could guess or think- at that time
That he would call it quit in his prime.

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