Golden Shovel

The fleeting mirages in the desert minds we design as our desire, chase the challenge with endless effort sincerest, but someone beyond the horizon laughs a silent laughter, for the starless sky after scarlet sunset we have to live with. The sad hues from convoluted canvas we try to erase some, albeit with decayed dreams we plunge into the abyss of pain, see butterflies drift away not finding where the rose garden is. In time’s sandstorm with dismay debris our hearts are fraught, in the twilight hour we walk weary the last mile with our sight searching for the oasis where the breeze, the sweetest, ripples with rhapsodic rhythm, whispers the soothing songs in sync with the rustle of fallen leaves, we like them as they are, for the beauty of the golden autumn we discern in those. In the deep valley of anguish the torrent of tears that before getting lost in the depth of memory murmurs to tell in mesmeric melody what resonant cords the mind is made of, that resounds with joy in the refrain of symphony, the saddest, as it sinks serenely in the sensuous sea of delightful thought. The final words taken from P. B. Shelly Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.