The Fortune Maker Poem by Hardik Vaidya

I do not reveal the lines hidden
In mounds of dirt,
Upon my multilingual palms,
And neither do I now down to the hymn,
Of your cacophonous psalms.
Parrots, tar rots, gods, idols,
Infidels, atheists alike them all,
Fall shallow,
In the deeps that I get so oft lost,
In the wrinkles of your once,
Effulgent complexion,
In those chasms of folds,
Skin loose dry and perhaps old
I see the youth of my existence.
Nirvana.