My Illness

 I am ill but, in which disease I am suffering

Only, when I write, sometimes feel pain in a finger

This house, I made in my hand, 

But looks like a hospital,

 My bed looks like for patients

I stay with the pain, without a bathroom!

I bath in operation Theater

The key became guard with a spear

 When I want to open the lock

No one here, only a sister cooks in the oven

The Sesser, knife, and bandage

And serve me a tablet, capsule in a rice plate 

But, what happened to me?

Never I lived with a single pathogen

We, the poets, fearless, prayed only for

The reader and butterfly

We can see too far in the naked eye

We see the hand fan on wind’s hand

The crops field like bangles playing on the bed 

And my reflection on the dew, 

So far on the grass, I can see clear,

I can hear, that tells me also I am ill