Spring enraptured, in the, throes of fall
Bliss dissects, pain’s dimensions
Like an Eliot, lingering in recall
Of a Mozart’s, profound renditions!

Is it a joy, which we, yearn for?
Or the solace, that throbbing imparts
In a mob, of estranged, souls galore
We cherish, most, our bleeding hearts!

The purest psalm, of the nightingale
Who stabs, her soul, against a thorn
Ain’t the tedium, of a, joy’s travail
But the passion, of a pain, forlorn!

It’s a remembrance, not a rhapsody
Wherein, substance of,  soul belongs
Enduring truths, amid myths’ ennui
Our reflections, Our Saddest Songs!

© 2018 Vikas Chandra