' To The Captive Soul-' Poem by Deb Panda

(I)
Distraught- the Voice has swept out of the wind-
Once that was the native-forlorn;
But wind itself is alone the lad-
In shrill, in cold with the plight of the Old.
And few are shed, under his compass-
Where age was transcendent to old-
And the world dies out of color,
In gentle breeze, -dancing with the Held.
I remember-'Still it was of resilience-'
To the 8th lane- out of his land, O' man!
And to the captive Soul, out of burning sun, seen?
Before it' stake, -with the eclipsed rendition.
And I've seen, all but futile Cycle perches-
And mend their way, into silent bolts-
When all her thoughts, were brewing over,
Nightly clouds that pass by strained eyes.
(II)
The world shifts to freak of a thousand-
And pulse of time is dead within the room,
Of numberless mental moves- fluttering-
"In the olden morning, to a young, olden groom"
Drop, where it centers-above horizon, or dark?
And wishes are fading out of time, learnt though-
That-not the mild task of a guised beauty-
Whose length is to stars; dazzle in chirping blow?
From his passive heart, it falls to break
From his whistling vein, struggling surge of beats-
That much worth -not- much worth to keep,
Of Plentitude- passed through- Her land to his accents.
Ask-"The pain that is not profound, -grief in dip"-
When the fearless king settles down for tomorrow,
Be it called - not the adieu, springs out of sweep-
And all thus meet by, before the death itself bows!
(III)
And yet not known whom it's anymore to call?
In dark, the worth of a pound to a thousand past-
But the world, itself chased us, to the alienating call!
To Moments with the lost name wiped out of sheer disgust.
With sheer freak of a fading mind, of a 'Shepherd's Daughter'
With deluge length of lightening depth to freedom,
Of brutal mind to mercy, and to crush it out-
Of frozen weight around- crept the ravaged plot to dream.
With the second paradise lost after a fleeting trip-
And stones that are hard enough-even to rest the grim-
And not cleave the utterance that was quickly blowing-
In queue - in flair-that transcend through time and clime-
Those barely left, -Pinch of the point to right-
And right is to left; in the way rarely stepped
To call letters, to move with mobile-If true;
Virtue that tortures and moves with no covering.