At the end of the year
Where we swerve,
And the fresh things being carve
And the bygones resides only in our hearts.
The only fear is that,
Whether we’ll the same as the past.
The memories we fabricated,
The best times we depleted,
The promises we weaved
And the things we portioned,
We’ll be the same or it’ll metamorphose.
Is sum diverse into different roads,
Or will stay as it is, forever and ever….
But as you all oathed me,
Growing up, but not apart
This crew will always be the heart.
It prospect me of our togetherness
And our altruistic oneness.
-By Swatilagna Mishra
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