Our stoic tombs, do whisper out
The legends, of our, sweet despair
The vain triumph, of a, heart devout
Who lost out, to a, sin debonair!

It was no clay, but flesh and blood
With a vein, and nerve, of raw candor
Which nurtured, that enduring bud
To bleed, the soul, of a vain martyr!

Why men, dare pain, with insolence
What do, they redeem, a phantom dream!
And hold, to death, that love’s pretense
A faith futile, they dread, to blaspheme!

The only solace, in this, sinful conquest
Is to be, one amongst, love’s Bonapartes
Vain warriors, of a, lost conquest
We Are, The Martyrs, Of Our Hearts!

© 2018 Vikas Chandra