And logic for culmination;
A theology out of my cultivation,
My seeds never had borne fruit.
Nature’s mockery reddened on the surface,Those pickaxes now for the harvest;
Greenery overflowed my dry ponderings,
Time’s breeze revived my damp strings.
A flute somewhere in the distant,
The Gypsy moon with whom I stare;
Blended notes one by one,
Connived for my lips and a new satire.
Deep-seated ice in the polar bed,
One on my physic;
Though I die sometimes,
For others – just gimmicks.
Coagulated now on the living cell,
The world out for absurdity;
Homogenous catastrophe of freedom,
The Gypsy moon added to this boredom.
Alas! Some more hunger left,
For a life deep inside some past hallucinations;
I ponder, I endeavor, and I run – My lust.
Punctured life, you owe me those stale bloods.
The above poem is not yet published and i am still working on the Poem. There could be some changes in the final version. I would be greteful to have feedack from your side. The Poem talks about chnage, Loss and ambitions crushed by time.
Cheers and Keep Winning,
Shamsud Ahmed
