I burnt the effigy of the old customs
Is it a sin,
amidst the snowy chilled world Iam standing,
Grant me thy courage to withstand
And forbear the ransom
That which strangles my existence….
I , born to be thus,
A silent crusader,
A life long fighter,
What shall then
stop my battle…
behold, I watch the world mutely,
my ink screams with utmost intensity!
The pen dwells through my veins
narrating the tale of agony and miseries!
does the splendid ink speak of glory
or stories magnanimously told as lie!
whatever it echoes , it shall resonate
the sordid reality
Classy chose few embellished dreams
They signify the status and reach
impractical and hard to decipher
The nomenclature of the modern day objective.
What fuss the jargons create thus
piling with verbiage
leaving aside rectitude and veracity
with dancing doldrums of the coloured goals
announces the widely acclaimed aspiration.
Preferred if, another idyllic venture
Lies which beyond the commoner’s comprehension
assumes the widespread then
there doesn’t exist any such profession.
In servitude of mankind thus
to render free expression in form of few precious words
which reveal the candor of self
to uplift the withering sense of the perishing humanity…
is my chosen noble profession.