When maple whispers, fall’s requiem
And twilight spills down, blood of sun
He staggers up, for that, one dream
He lost away, in the life’s, long run!
Whilst croons beside, his feathered chum
Her ode to, one more, idyllic day
“I wonder how, could you succumb
To the guile, of ‘bliss’, life’s dead giveaway!”
“I wonder not, sarcasm of your race
Which measures joy, with pain’s finesse
And pain in, miles to, rapture’s chase!”
Moaned diva of the wilderness!
And then they, gaped at paradox, of existence
The pilgrim left, to buy himself, a coffin nail
The yodeler bled, her heart out, enraptured thence
A psalm to their sweet travail –“The Old Man And The Nightingale”!
© 2018 Vikas Chandra