I need a lover to be a hero,
Who never complain against the agony to his ego,
He, who bursts into flames,
Not for his art – but just for the pain.
So whilst caressing this romantic philosophy,
I once made a bid to celestial cosmology,
For surely it was He the One, the Only…
Who placed me here on earth as I am so lonely?
Then if He be without aught but His perfections,
Then why did He make me with so many imperfections,
And pray, how doth one apply for Divine Interventions?
When the essence of my existence stems from sin…
(…as my prayers do tell)
and all who are in awe of lord – may end well,
So let not the fruits of worship go untasted,
But then how does one stop food for thought from getting wasting?
When detached from the Spirit I connect to this world,
Because my every breath of life cries for more, more, more..
…but then when every pulse of this city goes to sleep…
…that is when every poet’s eyes begin to weep….
Become puritan, when impurities become pregnant,
With a lust entitled Murder, Justice or Freedom…
But justice is dead in (America and) in England,
When I have to fight, to become an animal with an addiction,
My addictions become, goals, my goals, become my houses,
‘We hope that one day, we may, build Golden Palaces…’
When the greatest sign of love is a white marbled pavilion,
Then what’s worth my art, my blood, religion, or opinion?’
Who am I to judge history, treason or genius,
When I inflict myself to the masses of saints, and trinions?”