The Wind On The Hill

vikas chandra

Could more be stray, the soul of mirth
That soars o’er, the verdant knoll
Estranged till death, this fury’s birth
Which stirs in heart, the pain of fall!

With pilfered whiffs, from the wilderness
She rustles past, earth’s enigma
Her rhapsody, can’t help, but bless
The nonchalance, of joie de vivre!

What searches she, thru the mystic realm!
Soul of solace, which hides therein
With a creed to spur, and overwhelm
She resurrects, life’s sublime sin!

She fills freedom, in the riotous wings
Until élans, of upheaval spill
Thru timeless echoes, a widow sings
The sagas, of The Wind On The Hill!
© 2018 Vikas Chandra

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