Where blooms, the soul, of nonchalance
And life, redeems, nirvana’s spree
Done with, the world, its dalliance
I find, inner realm, in soliloquy!
Where winds, whistle, psalms of solace
And clouds, caress, my being with bliss
Could man-made faith, be so pious
To fill joie de vivre, in heart’s abyss!
Beyond malaise, of life and death
I am a pilgrim, of my soul
Estranged to world, its shibboleth
Which hates, bare truth, loves hyperbole!
How blessed me, a saint’s envy
Who counts not, rosary beads, of time?
Nor measures life, in spoons, of tea
But lives, to death, a dream sublime!
No fear, of faith, no hope’s deceit
I grow my God, in soul, I till
Where bows, the world, to kiss my feet
My Home Atop The Silent Hill!
© 2018 Vikas Chandra