by Prabir Gayen
The world will think the better poetry than that of mine,
The better rhetoric with charmed Rhapsody,
The Mind of high stimulative theologians will cut the grass of literary Shuck.
The world will accolade the pain and prosperous rhyme of the poets bygone.
The fame is posthumous and is bewitching,
The present is Vociferous and declines to naught.
My poetry is deciduous and besieged as my
Soul atrophied and beaten by Time.
Life's exigent journey from nullity to opulence,
From being a shadow to Sustenance,
Is a thin veil of absolute Vainglory.
The prosaic rambling of life dark and arcane leads to a shore without shore.
If poetry fails to fabricate the authentic spontaneity of being and to lead into the rhythm of absoluteness, prose is better to allow.