Where meet the snaky streets, nowhere!
Like chase of truths, and quest of lies
Stands an, unknown tombstone, staring there
Of a bard, content, cut down to size!

O’er oil lamp, who, distilled his soul
And scraped on, relics of, emptiness
Silent psalms, flung out, on the dole
From the blue window, of his dark recess!

“O Lord! If this be, my poesy’s plight
And thy art, just, lavish travesty!
Why I squander, heart and soul, each night?
Never ever, to be read, nor heard, by thee!”

Small hamlets are, where giants are born
To be lampooned, like a lasting canard
“Why art is a sin, of hearts forlorn?”
Resents the heart, of A Small-time Bard!

© 2017 Vikas Chandra