దయచేసి ZNetకి సహాయం చేయండి
What struggle is harder than
The keeping up of hope,
When the snake that looms ahead
Is a snake and not a rope.
Anacondas are fearlessly
On chairs of state seated,
The hoi polloi are their feed,
By minion serpents feted.
From the land a seven-year old
Braves the brood with a wonder
Of percipient oraton
That tears the dupe asunder.
Perhaps she is the goddess new
Come to liquidate
The unrelenting anacondas
Who slither over the state.
Perhaps the aged principles
Who suffer agony
Without demur or second thought
Pluck hope from infinity.
The world’s most puissant anaconda
Has indeed tasted dust;
May be hope is just the truth
We must uphold at any cost.
ZNetwork దాని పాఠకుల దాతృత్వం ద్వారా మాత్రమే నిధులు సమకూరుస్తుంది.
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