The Tragedy And Tale Poem by Deb Panda

How brittle! Liberty – If I wonder –
For brittle is yours, yours word, the gale
Diffused within the bounds of cloud –
And rain, if it has rained the purity to muddle.
If I ask,
Deep in the fifth voice –
Trapped down the earth deep within –
And if, I look, deep in filthy tone?
From filthy loop above; a far sediment;
And fine!
And if tragedy befriends to tale –
No warm –No ruin; thus be futile,
To fall beneath
This little warm chamber.;
To resting clocks pain –
Shock of the wheel.
True, if the sun settles her down –
Passing by gild burns, the crystal joy,
Dug under her faith, fate of the moon –
She sweeps – in compass of death and day.
If all fault be with the warrior,
Lost all, to gale of a fright pair –
Of love and duty; in crossed fire,
This is her – bore the load - despair.
If this be true; to eye and soul,
In bottom of a thought till that length,
To tales of tomorrows; if it lasts –
Will be the distraught,
kin of the forgotten.
All this be written; only in supreme souls –
Departed so long, from my knowledge far,
For the ire, burnt with pain of crux –
For mediocre, for ideals,
The Great- follower.
If flower blossoms in a far little hut –
Farther in desert;
Perches on pen;
Soul of this supreme soul,
If love puts its jewels to timely worth –
Plucked -before it crosses,
The test fire –toll.
Will be to dust, if it severs,
To space of the tale –naïve –
Who gapes at love of the desert?
But gapes at the desert of love.
No rain stares at the cloud,
For the earth –
And no pen meets the death –
Death dies to pen;
For fair poise – Death fears the pain,
For liar never dares the truth, captive to win.
If this be fault; to error of the age –
Not this be mine; to freedom of space –
To her will; trust beyond the fifth fare fires,
To fragments of a soul; no more to the farce.