In the throes, of truth, this saint of words
Is all, but lost, to his, thoughts’ pilgrimage
Done with, world’s, legend of, canards
What smolders, within, is spent outrage
That sage, in me, has come, of age!

No more, tethered to, world’s sacraments
My verses, are, wild vagrant kites
With his thoughts, left alone, how a man, invents
Beauty’s, new faith; passion’s, new rites!

The ditty, of, lovelorn nightingale
The zephyrs’, rustles, thru the, falls
All strewn o’er, moorland’s, forlorn trail
My thoughts, lost in, rosary of recalls!

Bliss of nirvana, is my, every verse
Like the, bursting soul, of a soprano
May my heart, transcend, the universe
My Songs, Are Rivers, Let Them Flow …!

© 2021 Vikas Chandra