What stirred, the heart, of nightingale
Who cooed, thru night, a sin’s rapture
And left behind, the lingering trail
Of the myth of life; pain’s conjecture!
The pain, we farm, in our fertile souls;
The joy, we splurge, from barren hearts
No hand blistered, raking o’er old coals
Yet, we are the creed, our pain imparts!
The lasting truth, amidst all lies
That substance, of our existence
Are the pains, so pious, which baptize
Our lives, beyond our, deaths’ pretense!
When pilgrimage, does come to, its end
And we recount, our lives, in years;
The pains we earn, the joys we spend
We Ain’t Beyond, Our Treasured Tears!
© 2018 Vikas Chandra