The, For, In Poem by Purvesh khamankar

For many a filthy centuries I droped dead beneath the moon,
for many a happy festivals I saddled away in gloom,
for longing days of endeavour I traveled in my yard,
for countless nights of feinging flights I droped down hard.



The freedom of my Martyrdom filled my empty lung,
the swinging of dead resounds the chapter hung,
the drizzle of that yellow drops upon my holy land,
the cursed faith of red blood upon thy murky sand.



In the past of reinging dark I fumble on my way,
in the realm of harping lark I mumble what i say,
in the mud of cleansing sages I wither down my curse,
in the final act of men I did and did rehearse.


- P.S.K