My Vow Poem by Sathya Narayana

I'm not the kind of poet to churn and skim

The great splendors of the nature with whim

The Moon, the Sun and the milky passage

Inspire me not; neither at skies, I gaze

To count the hues of the lovely rainbow

Nor in illusory pipe dreams I rove



It's not that I'm unaesthetic and numb

But lo! I have many a woe to plumb

And with a torch in hand I make a run

Amidst the dead machines, struggling with pain

In a world of gloom; in where raises no Sun



With those men I'm; who run the toothed crank wheel

Of world wagon, with no yearnings, no feel

No strong desires; to climb the coach; no itch

To sit on its cushions along with the rich



I keep watching their grim moil, listening

To their dour spiel, with ire my eyes burning

My pen spilling my vow of blood; in bold

"Never will I leave them to die in cold"