Would sweet still be December, starved of mustard blooms?
Won’t the honey spill splendidly, from the goblets of yellow fire?
Won’t the hearts still yearn, for the love that grooms?
Riots of nuances, rituals of desire!

Don’t the heavens lust for, this immortal vista?
When a myriad flags of hope, sway in dance divine
Never breaks their bliss, come rain or shine
Nor ends the chutzpa, of splendor’s fiesta!

They kiss horizons, many endless miles
Thru the labored farms, and the forlorn vales
That face of truth, this bride unveils
Which hides in the winter’s, ruthless trials

What all, a heart can hold, lo and behold!
Each speck is paved, in pure grandeur
Yellow nectar flows, in the veins of moor
When Mustards Cradle, The Glory Of Gold

© 2017 Vikas Chandra