That waif, which wails, thru many years
In a heart that cradles, love’s souvenir
How vain seems the faith, which perseveres
That lasting thorn, in the shrine of fear!
Why pain be, the truth of human creed
Which chisels a man, from a blithe child
Not an inbred flaw, but a trait decreed
To pacify, a soul, unreconciled!
Better heart had been, a tomb of stone
And not a bleeding, passions’ core
To spare a race, to mourn and atone
The sin of birth, life’s miseries galore!
Lost labors of love, vain nirvana’s quest
And a man enslaved, between the twain
Soul seeds in heart, life’s lasting bequest
The sublime art, of Farming Pain!
© 2017 Vikas Chandra