Thursday, January 14, 2010

He Who Chose

They sat simple, together,
eating a meal, sweat priced; when
the stalwart peasant heard,
a gauged strike, his axe called.

Hovering the skies,
shunning the leaves, falling them,
the echo breezed callous,
His steps, yet subtle and calm.

The time of lugubrious works,
had departed to an erudite divinity.
When his steps reached for,
had he no idea what he saw.

Wealth and jewel glistening,
the night to celebrations enthralling,
it appeared all gleamy,
as if, a light ended nap.

The forces had overshone,
their lengths on a midget;
but he seemed vicious, to his gifts,
no brain saw why.

Alas, he had chosen,
his priceless possession, his
unending wealth, his belief;
He chose his arms over God's.

© Rajat Mahajan. 2010


aditya said...

Fascinating write this !!

He chose his arms over God's.

What a bloody good way to end a poem :)

ecstatic shimmeR said...

What a bloody good time to get a comment. Just when I was thinking what crappy poem I had written, I get this comment of yours. :)

aditya said...

Hahahahah !!

nahi yaar . read this a while ago. crappy net speeds. So could not comment !

Do write often. Though it is easy to offer advice such as this one !