An aspiring writer worked with fervour, perspiring inspiration. He felt like he was on fire.
Staccato steps sifting sanguine sands
Truth toys with Temptation’s tantrums
Oh my love, I will turn the oceans red
For just one kiss
This was good, this was good… the writer thought to himself, but his inspiration vanished.
“BLAH, BLAH, BLAH…”
Over the writer’s house, above the smog filled roads of Delhi, beyond the cacophony of the abomination of unchecked urban development, atop the clouds where the sun played with shadow, an immortal shuddered. That had been a waste, he thought to himself as he rolled over in the sky. The power he’d sent to that writer had been filled with enough potential to let the young man below access the dharmabhuta… and this garbage was what he produced? The writer was too lost in the sound of his words to appreciate their meaning. The immortal began to sing
One two three four
Legs cut out from under me
Gift a man a limb
He knocks you out with his shin
The Ages turn
The sages burn
Fire to mould
No waste when bold
The immortal’s regret was quickly dispelled. He began a new tune.
Enlightenment like a sea
The waves there to remind me
When I drift to a beach
And try to overreach
I hear the tides
He drifted higher, turning his gaze to the stars, bathing in their light. As though aware of his gaze, a few stars began to dance, choreographed by Venus. A dance of the heavens just for him? A divine mandate. He applauded, but stopped a moment later, his face turning grim. The steps were wrong. This dance was… Death? His death?
As people say these days