Chetanya Pandey
A classical poem I composed to voice the silent empty wall of my sober messy room.
Speak Cruelty did,
“ ‘Hunger!’, it dragged thee into the plentiful sea of thy wreath
Hath the bolts been hurl’d like a sword drawn upon a sheath?
Nay, shall hanger or strife confer upon Mercy
A note as that bestowed upon Elizabeth by Darcy.
In the hearth most ridicul’d of the dark, dark heavens,
Do scoops lie resting on the shallow lavens,
As they point passionately a note for one to be charmed by?
‘Driveth onward!’ cried the cry just as he passed by.
And innit shall the saddest gloom strive to contrive
For by no means would courage be satiated by a lone life
That brought to his age-old displeasure
The joy of a cool, warm breath
And shone the saddest thought the night of the saddest death.
And spoke it did, loud in the fanciest attire
‘Thy shall forsake thyself’ in the sweetest satire.
Hath he enjoy’d the joy that swung itself across the loom?
And it little profits to end fun on account of doom.
Thro’ the gal vale did he proceed to get himself enshrin’d
Doom on doom, pain on pain had his path lin’d
And he could make it all out so well but still he chose to turn deaf
For he had in his mind a goal to which he couldn’t faff.
The courage in his refuge woo’d out from the bud
As it seated itself aloof and gazed at the trough
As quick as the ruminant brought out the cud.
Set the man on his path, his self so buff.
He swore an oath as the calf lay reclined
And keep he did it as he sang the doleful line
‘tis enduring toil landed me in despair
For it was a damage provoked, not I could repair.
I sat beside me and looked large upon the resurgent soul
Who knew no better half than the Mystery dole.
The slumberous sheet of qualm fixed me in my look
As I lacked nothing but a chance to peep it by a book.
Age told on me but was fated not to tell on him
And on went the somber man inimitable and grim.
Thee beckoned him to advance
As the vale lay bordered with palm.
The grievous wound thou had conferred upon him
Was thus a wound sans a balm
But he still did make it!
Whence a man of an ill-used race shall mourn and rave
But there upon he lay bedecked with
An armour of mercy unlike so much the naïve
For thy plot of noble note tho’ crafted with thy pen
Cleaved not to him for he was the lion in his den.
And thee bore misery wrought by the self
As he dint lose his homeward way
While thee tried thyself.
The pulchritude and effusiveness was fed no calm by day.
The ones like thee who hath every dreamful ease
Found no satiation with the toil on his grease.
Thee made him advance in a spectacular array
And yet the man countered them all, right in the lay way.
Thy clouds, O, Mystery seem to be lightly curl’d
But mine, nay, have thriftily swirl’d
Up and up, and down and down,
Into the creations of blooming-hues
And, nay, shall I lie careless of mankind in thy rues.
The bribe of sentiment could not but yield to him
As he lay having surpassed the best of courage in man
In keeping with his delightful humour, he shall become a name
And even the inscrutable decree of Providence
Shan’t douse the flame.
This utmost bound of a man’s lacking in fear
Shall, one day, cease mankind’s most terrible conflict in rear-
It’s conflict with its own self-
It’s conflict with humanity
Which is no mere skirmish.
And the boundaries that I created
Meant not to be o’erstepp’d by man
Are aujoud’hui reduced to the scab of a minor ban.
I slap a tax on all those who seek to outrage
The winding clouds shall blaspheme all the men fed ill
And counter shall it act, counter to their will.
And down shall burst an epic lump of clay
What pleasure can thou have to express it another way?
And thy reprimanding thyself shall force itself upon our glance
Just as la terre shall, one day,
Reckon the void of the employment of the lance
These parcels of the dreadful future rest upon thee
As this hero hath hanken in all his celibacy
To hath the world, with vulgar eyes, open up and see
The Count of Me, The Count of Mercy.
Count on me to come like a ghost to trouble thee tonight
For thee hath kept me shut up in an urn devoid of light.
The echoes call, they are dewy with plenty in thee
Just as this clanging fight shall, eventually, lead on to me.
