It might well be a lingering day dream,
An impression of what I've been reading,
Or just my heart's deeply-felt outpouring,
From cave-dwelling times surfacing like cream,
Or lessons learnt from life as to me seem;
Let world mock at my puffed up piety,
Calling it confused mind's perplexity,
Not much of dream— as a poetic whim!
But let it be. I'd still an altar build,
Though not for sacrifice, nor lit with fire,
Let no wild oblations bloom from green field
Culminating a deeply-stored desire,
But no more than to just commemorate—
To celebrate Creator's work, if late!
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Sonnets | 09.08.15 |
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem