T’is evening and the counter of my penetralia are quite alike; vacant.
Now aura is crimsoned, so does my heart: bleak,
As the far twilight horizon.
The splendour of my sun is sinking into oblivion,
The fire has burnt, and only ashes have been left behind.
Now I’m the keeper of empty counters.
Have you ever paid attention to the tune of the dirge?
Where a poet is crying the penetrating cry,
Could rent the kernel of metamorphosed rocks.
But my cry is crying the dry cry,
A Band-Aid upon the wound of a rock.
No one listens to it!
Have I been handled well by insiders?
Absorbed in the business of machines,
And packed in avaricious thoughts.
You giving me medicines daily, out of love
Some out of sympathy – CONCOR.
The tablets cannot alleviate the pain in my heart,
It’s the reservoir of history and melancholia.
Does know only one language: honeyed and lucid;
The tongue of love, of course, darling, the love’s,
By love t’is cauldron named heart,
Over the oven gets tarred by soot and smoke.
Can be cleansed not by medication or through
Extra-hypocritical pat, sponge, bar or brush.
Sometimes you need to try some
Timeless galvanisation, that sparkles perennial.
