Had it not been, dialect of pain
Would still it be, a skill profound
To bare truth’s soul, 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!
Like the spark, which spurs the nightingale
To thorn her heart, oe’r a love-prayer
A bard swills pain, from truth’s Holy Grail
Till his heart burns wild, with the bluest flare!
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