The myriad souls, reared by, sun’s tears
Who have foregone, their fruits, of care
Strewn existence, of theirs, appears
Like pilgrims, lay on, death-beds, bare!
Make me, theory of, these conjectures
Hay-maker, in your, rustic roll
No bliss, as pure, as the splendor, it stirs
A bundle of joy, running down, the knoll!
From the, mortal fate, of inertia
Make me, the fest of, lasting mirth
May the, zephyr fill, joie de vivre
In the, life’s relics, lusting rebirth!
Not a, distance seems, yet another mile
But an orgy, of a, kite astray
Let a, faith prosper, in a sin fertile
How I Long, To Be A, Bale Of Hay
© 2018 Vikas Chandra