Up heavenward held have I my sight, and ponder,
"Can't I rise to the stars and pluck a lot?"
That, wretched earthlings in return for honour
Of me, will cuddle home, one each, of my unique stunt.
But fear soon shrouds my stuck-out vissage of
The Quixotic fantasy dwarfing me
To humble limit of this mortal stuff,
That, God of a human I can't e'er be.
In falls and bruises is written my past,
For often have I jump'd for the impossible;
And as I wake up ere few years to last,
I know I've lost the value of th' possible.
Yet, with each passing day, more I become lame,
The height of wishful hope goes higher for fame.
- N. P. SAMAL
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