Had it not been, dialect of pain
Would still it be, a skill profound
To bare a truth, is a fear profane
In shades azure, that lone abound!
Ask Eliots, Keats’, its recipe
The storm that stirs, in a throbbing mind
They deified, a heresy
That lust for pain, in a psalm, enshrined!
Whilst yearning sows, its seed in soul
And misery rears, its bud in the heart
Blue-blossoms bloom, to take their toll
On a bard sold out, to pain’s sinful art!
Beyond their blood, no ink may last
No truth may live, beyond pain’s hue
Why beauty’s born, in hearts downcast
With a hope – ‘Despair’, Why Bards Are Blue!
© 2018 Vikas Chandra