Of Kings and Merciless Time

 

Of the hands
That once grew flowers in a desert,
Of the hands that created living characters,
In that silent play
Of the generation more human,
Yet more ruthless,
Of the kings who lost their first battle
And of the princess,
Who lost her pearl necklace,
The time shall linger one bright day.


Those hands, old and sinful,
As they touched the sand,
And built a Taj Mahal,
That made them memorable,
For each flower they nourished,
There spread some light, to sky,
And for each sweat drop they hide,
Created one ocean,
Even bigger than their pride,
Of those characters, they never knew,
And their fate had already written,
Already been haunted by those sinful hands,
Was more than just a joy  for them to act,
Was just to make,
Those unbearable silent songs pleasant.


Those kings were no different,
Not worthy for a praise,
In those storms of sand and still,
Those shining swords they raise,
Lost a battle and lost their countrymen,
As they screamed “off with his head”,
Still they won,
With their swords still raised,
As all those old paintings,
Reminded her of the necklace,
The bliss that out matches all her wealth,
Every time she gets a glance,
And that old lady still dresses
As a princess for her king,
Every time she gets a chance.


For all those humans who were dead,
With deformed humanity,
And of blood, not so red,
For everything,
Those were lost on their way,
This merciless time, shall linger one bright day.