Destiny’s silent still at my will: A poem  

I keep rotating and revoluting, and yet I am still 

The yellow roses in my coloured pot know that’s my drill 

The dervish of my imagination has time to kill 

I am threadbare in my motion, till dusk if I will 

I am not lampooned by the imposition; not irate with the grill 

I flutter like a butterfly, like a gasp of wind on my windowsill 

‘Be brave child, be brave and smile and take the bitter pill’ 

my Mother says silently, and her advice always had no frill 

Dad, I ask you, who committed crimes and who did foot the bill? 

`Son, doesn’t matter (the injustice), there is a way, with the will 

You are a million milestones, never run of the mill!’ 

The yellow roses in my coloured pot are falling to dust, still 

And I am burning away my beauty, just like that little petal 

And I thought I bought the flowers for you Mum and Dad; little 

by little, they are dying; is love so failingly brittle? 

‘No son, there is a dream beyond every dream, you must instill 

destiny with the amulet till its flowers break open, and chill 

posterity with the heat of such love, be that forest of wish and will 

So that the dewdrops of our tears moisten each soul until 

there is only the path that you willed, no longer the chasm of evil!’