Who mangled the lines ?

Who mangled the lines ?

Why does my heart feel shrivelled ?
Bedevilled by a thousand and one woes ?
Who are the foes stalking me at every juncture ,
puncturing my zest , my lust for life ?
The Konstantin Yuon painting on the wall fronting me ,
looks on accusingly .
The Cornflowers in a ray of Sunshine ,
no longer shine as I pine for the pristine purity of that past of mine ,
when elephantine hatred had not crept into our entrails ,
when the serene , soothing breeze
cruising merrily in the verdant trees
had not morphed into a grotesque gale ,
when the pallid lines fringing the clouds still had a silver hue .
Who mangled the lines ?
Who forgot the cue – of love ?
Who strangled the dove ?
What grotesquery killed that happy song , which had a cadence so fine ?

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