Locked up in an enclave
With no threads nor bars
Confined to a gaol of wit
Tied upon the folds unkind.
So weary from an inkling
As the moment's trance pound upon my thinking
But this heart is pure
Not fit for a hole as filthy as foul.
In a prison called mind
My legs do tremble within its walls,
Like every convict seeking the air of freedom,
I seek mine from the hands of boredom.
Darkness spreads upon the moment's reverie
Far across the land and the skies-
They taunt and haunt our very being
Setting our foot upon a land of thorns.
What if I watched from this dark walls
And paint a gloom of what beholds man?
What if I remain as meek as a muted flute
And fail to sound from the towers of justice?
Will I still be free from this prison called mind?
My nerves seems restless
Wishing to be subdued by this poetic recess,
But every sad tales-
That grace the moonlight
Is of woes and callousness.
Of broken homes and shattered dreams,
of grief and death beyond pity's sill,
Of hunger lingering on crumbling hill.
From the cruellest of lands
On the streets children take to arms,
And mothers wander helpless in search of alms.
Poverty and ignorance are still to hang on the scaffold,
Like a flood it sweeps across our land.
In this lone wall
Where thus peasants call
And the trampled in dusty mash-
Order the day to a gallant march.
To bring relief to the people
To stand by men when comrades call;
Never to languish in this prison called mind.