The Song of Song

What’s whole cosmos sings
since show began,
the Song of song
ever the same.

In quest of Nature’s harmony
in hurricanes and cyclones
holding mane of flight-footed time
the first to run from shore to shore
is none but dear me.

A mirage running
in dreary waste of life,
unquenched my thirst,
my yearnings divine.

Shearing all propositions,
axioms and systems,
in act of deconstructing
a priest of ashen anagrams have I become.

Fire in me is frozen.
The scripted scroll
asphyxiates in tracks.
The quest of holy grail
turns a bloody trail.

Gone with the wind
empires:
Mayan, Sumerian,
Nile and Rome.

Shredded their eminence,
faded their grandeur.
Now on film of time they remain
but pale shadow of their earlier renown.

Who is author-conceiver
of this macabre plot,
its epic sweep,
its meteoric rise, its meteoric fall.

In vociferating chorus
plebeians hurl defiance at gods,
the spectators at gladiatorial ring witness
the timeless tell-tale of slave and lion.

I draw a circle
with a blood–dipped knife
to ward off evil
but imminent persists.

Irreparable is order ruptured,
the meta-systemic irreversible rot,
the snapped rhythm of living creation,
no return of love once gone,
in vain all propitiations, all mantric invocations.