In a forsaken wasteland, on a sun-drenched mound, fading amongst anthills
Stands a mammoth tombstone, bent and defiant, by a diminished clearing
Effaced by time, a man, his name, a stone left to bare, his undying grand wills
His legends of figmental flair, fabled glory unsurpassed, the lust of his endearing

How tramps tie a teasing tale to this tomb, splendid fancies of mystified minds
“A lord entombed here in exile, now a phantom who reigns over this hostile isle”
“A peasant who hoarded his little fortune, to be buried like a king, after age long grinds”
Or “A booty hunter who always made his pile, alas, lost way in this chase futile”

Does it matter much who lies underneath this crumbling stone?
It’s a stark megalith of mankind’s brevity, finite frontier to his infinite vanity
A barefaced mirror that echoes his soul, what a substance is man, cut to the bone
A lasting emblem of a divine verity, death shadows life to the bounds of profanity

Magnified tombstones, fossils, nothing more, of a dead man’s last try to grasp eternity
Deeds benign with a resolve sublime, purity spent from soul and not a dime
Virtues alone and not a gravestone, lead a man to nirvana, a divine certainty
But for the tombstone, an unwilling mime, until reprieve, stares at time

© 2015 Vikas Chandra