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Unlock solutions to your love life challenges, from choosing the right partner to navigating deception and loneliness, with the book "Lust Love & Liberation ". Click here to get your copy!

Nihar Vyas

Abstract Tragedy Fantasy

3  

Nihar Vyas

Abstract Tragedy Fantasy

The Mortal Coverings

The Mortal Coverings

2 mins
247


It was rare winter noon,

When the sun –the spotless moon –

Bestowed warmth over beings all,

Making that garden seem preceding the Fall.


There sat a poet young,

Whose quill many a song had sung;

But now, the fragrant jessamine beside,

His thoughts of inspiration brought no tide.

An old ache in his limbs did spread,

While the cool breeze lulled his head.


Slow was his descent over that velvet grass,

But ere long Death’s young sister over him did pass.

His brittle bones relaxed, his frame eased;

A crescent his lips made, pleased.


His mind, that peace eternally sought,

Finally, it in slurring leaves caught,

And thus dismissed the world, that invader –

Of strife and melancholy opulent trader.


While two-thirds of his being slept,

Awoke that what oft wept;

That had not a voice yet,

But now could, to wish, its form set;

Amidst that green paradise, sole

Awoke the poet’s poor soul.


It rose above its mud-cage,

Above the smiling visage

That slept on, paying no heed

To the vital weight freed.


The soul first gazed at the blue-infinity

Where swallows did fly carefree.

To follow them, is it a want grew;

Their swift mate, to become, new.


Far away, on an oak old,

Her adventures a squirrel tiny told.

It desired to listen to her;

Like her, branch to branch flutter.


It soared up to fly,

To run, to dance, to be, to try.

But something the soul and body did bind;

It alas! couldn’t leave its mortal coverings behind.


A thin thread, nothing more,

That arose from the heart and the soul’s core,

Did not their separation allow?

It was an old Force –a forgotten vow.


To break free, its efforts were furious;

Of the truth of its meaning, it was oblivious.

Defeated, it stared at the thread –

Contempt for Life in the soul bred.


Someone stood a few steps away,

Observing all with eyes grey.

The soul looked up and spotted Him –

The Gardener –that figure tall and slim,

Under a cloak and hood iridescent;

A scythe and sickle on His belt present.


The scythe radiated a glow,

Similar in the Life Thread did flow.

And the soul at once knew

The Gardener was one of few

Who possessed the power to break

Or, that thread abominable, to make.


At Him stared long the soul helpless;

He stood there like an idol lifeless.

But soon Silence its lover Understanding met.

The time had not come yet

For the soul to denounce its mortal coverings:

Simple complexities were the Cosmos’s workings.


And with the dawning of Knowledge accursed,

In its consort Sorrow, the soul immersed.

With a last longing look at the grass, the trees, the birds

And the sky –defier of thought, engulfed of poets’ words –

The soul slept, rest powerless to find.

It alas! couldn’t leave its mortal coverings behind. 


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