To the, last drop, of his, Jewish blood
Insolent sin, blasé outrage!
In his farm, of fear, faith’s fertile bud
Would outlast him, beyond an, age!

When élan, sacrament, self-esteem
Are estranged, as hope, and despair
In the mind, of a genius, grandeur’s dream
Is a pride, prejudice, and passion’s affair!

World fêtes man,for, bohemian thought
Whilst his, life defies, diktats of death
Was Shakespeare, naïve, beyond a doubt
Who composed, Hamlet, and Macbeth!

He chose, to last, in what, he burnt
The millstone, of his, travail’s tome
And left, a legacy, literature learnt
The Franz Kafka Syndrome!

© 2019 Vikas Chandra