Rusting pins, in the hearts of, jaundiced books
Hold truths of art, against time’s outrage
Never lost Wordsworths, in history’s nooks
Mellow more their mirths, as poems age

Can time wipe out, eternal thoughts?
Nor snare beauty’s grit, in antiquity’s cage
When titans from tombs, call the shots
Echo enduring aplombs, as poems age

Many cuckoos died, and more will be born
To coo the ageless, passion’s rage
And gore their hearts, on love’s, lasting thorn
For a sweet sin sworn, as poems age

No ‘new’ is as good, as the ‘old’
For ‘old’ is all, but, there to gage
In bazaars of ‘now’, still past is sold
Lo and behold, as poems age

© 2016 Vikas Chandra