Morning shines off the bard with hair still gray
a lilting voice that quivers from tales of far away
people gather and listen with awe
he too sees the lips move but listens to the silence,
deafened by the incessant whispers of his grief.
Day breaks in without notice
men trapped in their lives and with much malice
they move with purpose matching the determined sun in its ascent
unmoved though he wonders, of life, universe and everything deep,
wasted, he lies tired with the gentle toils of his grief.
Earthy fumes from raindrops falling on
the dusky fields from ages dried
as they rise to compete with smoky pots
those evening cauldrons of the veiled brides
reminiscing on the memories of a love so brief
he suffocates with the nauseating whiffs of his grief.
Moonlit nights of countless bliss
cloud the eyes with a not so unknown mist
and the dreams blossom in the gentle breeze
but in the midst of fighting the demons and reaching the heavens
he wakes up to face the staring eyes of phantoms of his grief.