Hardly meticulous days,
Unfurled out of an unknown, unseen trade,
Of fresh eatable needs,
And serving pliable hands,
In some vigilant, virgin moment
When light had a reference of remiss.
So it’s on the globe,
Not the transient stars, not the teaching Sun.
It (in the sense of beyond liking and lending)is floating away among with the other previous pertinence,
The precious price of praying to an unjust prank.
A man is buried in deep wet mud,
Of course he thinks about the unfair hands that did the digging.
Yet he never asks forgiveness
Seeking remedy, ,
From the snakeheads he tasted and praised,
For being from the muds.
Latitudes always want to be meridians.
©Aashiq S
aashiq.jnv09@gmail.com
India