It seems, moorland has, bled its heart
Its, petrichor, I smell, from furlongs
A wandering, zephyr, called, “Mozart”
Whispers to me, “When it, spills, love longs”!

Where lazed, the monsoon, all these days
Stealing, the substance, of the, sea
I feel like, a lonely cloud, that strays
In search, of, life’s, lost rhapsody!

It ain’t, just myth, what, I didn’t see
And truth, what, I see, and, so I believe
Endlessly, I chase, reality
A paradox, many, paradoxes, weave!

Enough, of this, dissection, of bliss
It is, what, beauty’s, thought fulfills
Yet, persist beyond, spent rituals, of ruth
It Must Have, Rained, Somewhere, In The Hills!

© 2022 Vikas Chandra