Singularly inappropriate perhaps for a Monday morning, when we are all ready to attach a new week of work and challenges. The sun is shining, I am feeling pretty chipper on the whole, but there is always a part of me that responds anxiously to world news…
Once the spleen is vented out
When the ghosts are bed to rest
If the sorrow finds its match –
we shall desist.
With the seas sucked dry of ripples
Where secret forests live, unfold,
As each phrase falls on waxen ears –
We slacken, curled.
An attempt, a jealous grope this,
To woo the caverns of our mind.
Remote echo, no light to blind
The smouldering ruins of our bliss.