Wasn’t it meant to be, solitude’s epitome?
Neither lust for heights, nor sphinxlike yearnings
Just four walls on my past’s tomb, I call my home
Where dwell my dreams, my only worthy earnings!
Squall-kissed, mist-veiled, on a silent rock
Where time stands still, to savor succor
Neither far from the furor, of the placid loch
Nor near the sangfroid, of a suburb’s stir!
Not a bride, yes, a widow, of a hundred years
Yet, the darling, of my, hopes and despairs
Its aging walls, echo, ageless songs
How age of a dream, love’s pluck prolongs!
Who’s born to last, neither man nor stone!
Though dreams are forever, beyond a heart’s fill
My dreams breathe life, in my hope’s seeds sown
In the spirit of my will, My House O’er The Hill!
© 2017 Vikas Chandra