The Peregrination

 

Must I write a villanelle on thee?

Mine words I weave to match your rhythmical wave.

In which I bedlamite a cluttered conjecture of my own,

Where I depose of thy disguise, that thee has borne,

Hiding thus the cherubic imp thou art,

Behind a camouflaged path, that thou hast shown.

It is thy heart, kept aside in solemn prudence?

Courage, thee shalt set her out,

Fear, lest she let her go!

There be I on two trails to trod on,

Trails that intervene- a tangle hugger-mugger road.

Methinks I shalt walk thine road of wisdom,

And tramples I upon thy road of fools!

Which boat shall I row on thy billabong?

The creek hath changed his course then, now leaving thee behind in time,

I row then on its serene waters- a mass forgotten and left behind,

For a soul to finds, the boat moored,

And disturbs thy tranquility, hush broken by the oars!

What maketh this pile of a hillock of constancy?

Where thou chooseth thy decisions in thy own accord.

This hillock, she stood unmoving for years,

Permitted thy woodland of mystery to be born,

A forest that lay there now unfamiliar and cold.

A steep climb ‘twas if for me this one,

Her firmness collapses and softens in each ascent.

Boulders and rocks that lay untouched,

Then loosens and falls down its robustness and resistance,

Now having grown old and fragile.

So lost am I in thy vale of canopies,

Shaded thus by the uncertainties of thy life,

If ever tries she to penetrate her light in,

It grows in, diffused and strewn about.

Thy moss, they lay in subtle snares,

Thy plants, thine leaves grow towards her rays,

But shielded by thy rooftop’s leaves,

Stays in then I and maketh mine home.

Stays in then I and maketh mine own.