Whose cradle, rocks with, dulcet squeaks
The morning’s psalm, and night’s lullaby
I hear, from miles, what the, weathered wood speaks –
“May penance, be life, never say die!”

Who fills, the mirth, in this, fictional form
The reckless squall, or, man’s mechanics
Which streak, endures, many a storm
A mystique, beyond, Laws of Physics!

Where’s the glory, in an, unsung grind
Light years, away, from civilization
Where a cynosure, is hard, to find
Who vows, his life, to abnegation!

Behold the, timeless piece, of time
Which marches on, while a world, stands still
Fortitude, and faith’s, lasting paradigm
The Windmill O’er The Silent Hill!

© 2018 Vikas Chandra