Still fresh are the yearnings, of last year’s spring
And lesions of fall, on the grave of time
Still echoes in wilds, spent soul of fling
Which left its treads, o’er nature’s sin sublime

Still unrequited are swans, their rituals of love
On cold-blooded heart, of the restless lake
Still starving souls snugged, fit like a glove
What love is that, ever made to break!

Still sun sows the seed, of joy in sky
And the sin of dark, in the blood of twilight
Still moon sings the song, of its silent sigh
Thru the funeral, of the naked night

Still wasteland breathes, life into slumbering shadows
And rustling death, redeems, the birth of a new realm
Still swing four spells, in the cradle of, eternal meadows
For ageless ages, to overwhelm!

© 2016 Vikas Chandra