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The village head Pymy Gruzz was hundred years old
He had no daring self neither a piece of gold
Only a daughter had he she was a foster child
She was fifteen years old Kiki– sweet, gentle and mild
She gave him comfort with a docile, obedient smile
“No worry, father”, we are all together in our Lyle.
Night was perilous, hazy, and yellow as a ghost
A chill crossed the craven moon and a platter of duck roast
Kiki awoke and stepped out, in the dark the dragon queen snored
She crossed the lake Obenjinn and mounted the hill of sword
She felt the pricks of crusty prickles but she was climbing on
She must save the village Lyle where she was born
The dawn showed her chubby face happy on the child
Kiki made her journey’s end the day was sweet and mild
She found a man with sunny face god showed her in a dream 
She went to him with folded hands and made a pleading to him.
Sire, I am Kiki from village Lyle bleeding in my heart
My village folks have turned to rocks in fear of Kunnegert
She is a dragon fire breather, keeper of skull on pyre
She must be killed by a happy man I want your sword on hire.
My blood my sweat and all I have will go to you my sire
I cannot delay; my folks are locked and human skull on pyre.
The sunny man stood up straight with a radiant face
“Little kid my Kiki sweet you will not fall from grace.
I will go with you my little moon and kill the dragon sure
I say you clean in voice plain what a happy man can endure
A happy man is happy because he lives with his lord
A happy man is happy because he keeps all love on hoard
He gives it free to every creature lord had made on earth
Lord made him his best seraphim to take a human birth
He is born for others and dies for all and in compassion he is tall 
A dragon’s vice in valley of Lyle he must have to forestall
So Said he and took her hand   and sword shone in golden orb
They climbed down the narrow gorge in finest pace the earth can absorb
Kiki, the daring daughter of the village stepped along the happy man 
The golden sword the golden orb  reached the final lane
The misty valley still in spell
 the misty opiate dulled the souls and spurred the hell
The poet stopped his pen, slept a little, the stories told he had to retell*.


*This is the second part

(c) RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY
14 September, 2014
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