O death, thou art another name of living,
Visitor on sad hour, an uncourted tempest,
Leaving the mortals hearts shivering.
Ye eternal conspirator, elf of gloom.
Hidden in pains foliages like tigress
To prey; tear us apart, poor beings,
Till silence forever shrouds human face
Bereft of lives trace.
None has seen your loathsome face,
None can ever perceives thy stormy presence,
Shapeless invader with marauding crest
Plunders whatever of our little best.
It is said all are not so stale
Being stolen from lives feast, after
Suffering enough groans in lives little space.
For them ye welcome guest.
Perhaps thy roaming horses with falcon glances
Spare nothing in their inimical strides,
Even the gods gracious souls
Often perished in your dying folds.
Thou lonely citizen with unsparing ethos,
Befriended by none and never lured,
Still thy very name haunts the sages, poets and men alike.
O your passive embrace, cold, forever frowned,
Till a holy light after futility of earthly life
Heavy their tinkering hearts before endearing your misread pages.
All exasperate, all wither in view less fogs
Woven by you,
Save a prayer Heavenly bound, so lovely and mute.
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: art