“Whose life he lived, that estranged man
Who lingered on, lone stony street
A wandering lie, truth’s caravan
Is worth recall, a past deadbeat!
What bequeathed he, but penury
And shards of, rusted poetry
In the bazaars, of chic chicanery
He sold naked, his finery!
Don’t know the day, when he was born
Nor who’s gotten, his legacy
Except a whore, who sewed with thorn
The leavings, of his heresy!
Why should one live, for nothingness?
And die for a truth, veiled in despair
May the Almighty, yet care to bless
The bard who bled, his soul with flair!”
© 2017 Vikas Chandra