by Rana Sultaan Singh
In the midst of an unfolding moment,
crops a doing thought,
wavering heights of imagination,
to a space of eternal drought.
Climbs reach the fenced granaries,
do touch the virgin braveries ,
and bring them down, the plains of sight,
To challenge the Space of Christ,
Do droughts no means to life,
why He then forks the spics,
which long to chasten drums,
beating bare on One’s succumbs.
The soul no proof to Time,
of bounds so close to chime,
where winged evades of grime,
do crush,The Spades of Nine,
And fall with warring heroes,
in crest of Mortal zeroes.
Hath He remained sublime,
and breathed a word of Prime,
would none have claimed the Wine,
and touched the Holy Shrine,
To drape the World of Time, in melancholy of Dime.
Last updated July 03, 2015