Seeds were sown, in the infertile lands
an immortal being was born
pain do it yield, tears make it torn
as it, eats up self of its own
Story be told today
Of the bouquet of
yellow faded leaves that this being is
Of the sore cramps all over it’s soul that
blisters gather up to tingle
Water in the blisters be like
in the inquisitive
eyes of a sad Mother
whose children sob in the nights and
sleep beaten arms can’t comfort them
Their pain, they don’t tell
sympathies don’t make them well
Of the stinking fragrance of it
fragrance like of the flowers in the eyes
of a beautiful damsel
flowers that bloom on the plants of
abandoned gardens and die there
Of the angelic body
as of the body of a married lady
which is, tired of embellishing
loveless deceitful fancy beds
Story of the being that bathes
in the moonlit nights under
flaring silver skies of it’s darkest desires
that burn in their own sweat
Story of the being that, with all it’s imperfections
is dunk in the divine sanction of Him
as it suffuses beyond time and space.
Dedicated to all the readers.
White Shadows 