The Destiny.

This is not a country for living souls Recoiled the heart lives under the enshades Of vampire ridden nature and all its pards On beggarly sums amassed by the pauper Of bleakness and cold hunger and mort Here existing we burrowing like moles In drenched country in termite eaten rocks. Here are no events images or happenings But over the same the generations waste Cobwebbed on a bold spot their anger In rimless cups in pale lipped liquors Time eaten tales aimed at amusing Lamenting on their irrecoverable loss A loss which was never their gain Forward they go groping in search of substitutes In hotel rooms where empty pouches hang Over the pegs of wealth work and pleasure All have accepted with harried hands Stiffening nature humbly no measure for measure Their guts hanging loose from under their stomachs While vultures of low airs peck their brains Piece by piece removing the gilded frowzy matter Leaving the skull festooned and vainly waste. The ancient cults of sacrifices still existing Among jeremiad rules of the gushed brain Each fang beak or tentacle of spidery web The venom just dents entwines with its embrace No grief for marshalled loss no pent up for soul remained The old conscience just sleeps in arms of lap dogs And each hour becomes just sanctified and sane. It is not for charter of the world do we create Burning our brain and the light of our eyes Each image in our mind creates A corresponding image in the space And each line of the verse entombs In eternity a sightless gong Which the poet can hear with his subtle mind In the span of his wretched life and can find Some solace when everything significant is betrayed When the weed choked fields of this world can claim Their foremost place on the altar of the poesy.