Voice Poem by Susmit Panda

I carry an account of all such men
Who chase chances now and then
To escape their tongue from the grip of mouth
And bleat, in a voice so uncouth,
Their tiniest triumphs in swaggering fusillade
To be housed in the divinest shade;

What a solitude has struck this heart!
Therefore their souls have hired haste;
For whom would they make patience an art?
So for them to wait is waste;
But what sweet tune has my fate taken ditty!
For I believe you, friend Divinity!

Therefore, a holy composure is my trade,
To solely toil my promise;
I shall be quiet, and shall be quietly paid,
And never uncivilize my bliss;
All that seduces uproar, all goods and glories,
Shall ever be your task to release