The Forlorn Spirit


Beneath the light of a candle in hue
To know, my life is to-morrow due
As if to prove all claims of fate
That I went past each dream I held
Once I had so wished to see come true.

In my country, even the Nature fears;
Lapsing is a process of expected peace,
Upon the leaves shivering tears you see,
When the nymph a secluding white wears.

Anchored, maybe in the shore of death,
Befriending to what extent may be true ?
Sacred was my village which I had left,
And now my believes are quite profaned.
Lure of the creation if is to charm us,
Omnipresent violence should be to fear.
Mine is not mine, father I have no dear,
Suppose not, Marry might become my wife.

Willing when no God is within to hear,
I think can just do immure one's mind.
Lest I find my soul being tamed by evil,
Lend God prayers yet to some be no kind.

Neither I find myself right nor do I not,
On the penning of all my having not saids.
Triumph shall taste the bird once forlorn.

Decaying has become the seconds here at last,
Immense was the burden I shouldered as fine.
Excellent was everything, that was not mine.

 The Nomad Soul
 November 2000