How will you cross the mountain pass?
with nothing but a frozen heart.
How will you swim against the rapids?
when your brimstone heart weighs you down.
How will you touch the stormy skies?
a tempest ravages your heart.
Has your body worn out enough?
with blood flowing like sand in glass.
Has your numb mind made up its mind?
when you forgot to find its key.
Has your black soul swallowed you whole?
A chassis as fragile as glass.
Will you exist in memories
when you enter the chasm of
eternity? Or will you drown
in the nothingness that you came
from? Then where will you finally
rest your worn heart made of blue glass?
Paved a dreary path through the waking,
a solemn passage in time.
Severed tears to quell the aching,
rather poor funeral crime.
In a world as cruel as her fate,
she lay draped in white so pure.
She had said that it’s never too late,
Now I stand beside her unsure.
The warm smells of laddoos and incense,
still drift across her bright room.
She surrendered to a steep descent.
while I sunk in a selfish gloom.
I dredged the dry riverbed of thoughts,
to recall our vivid days.
Braided streams of old memories’ knots
twisted in an endless maze.
A fiery beast climbs upon the sky,
threatening to scorch again,
The glorious era’s end will lie,
with the ashes of her reign.
She heaved her basket of luck,
the small one to be sold.
The rolled bundles of cut flowers,
tomorrow would be old.
She waited for her only hope,
she waited in the cold.
Now, they had all that she did not,
much more than they could hold.
She trailed the heels of the tourists,
she badgered the employed.
Some bought flowers for their beauty,
some grace for the destroyed,
some bought flowers for their love,
some for those to avoid.
They saw the basket and petals,
but not her in the void.
She had a name that no one called,
she was seen then unseen,
The flowers were cherished till bloom,
while she had never been.
She took comfort in tomorrow
which she had never seen.
In a midst of the torn tempest,
a fragile figurine.
The Bringer of Death, woe begone!
the Master Grim must die,
he ruled from his throne in the East,
a place hard to come by.
The remarkable village swore,
that the Valley is theirs,
they blessed three youths a mighty quest,
to trounce who no one dares.
Thence came Winter with icy spears,
and bequeathed the land,
to frost, sleet and snow, to devour,
their barren final stand.
What would destroy the immortal?
perplexed, they asked their own,
an axe or arrow or poison,
tragedy of unknown.
They arrived at the Gates of Hell,
with devious plan in mind,
only Death could take him indeed,
he wasn’t hard to find.
Death dwelled in the palace wearing,
he appeared before the three youths,
with his birds of grackles.
Death would take the Master away,
if they melted his chains,
a feat accomplished by their souls,
only the pure remains.
They could vanquish the dark ruler,
Now were their souls worthy?
they released Death from his restraints,
Now were they unworthy?
The Valley of the East was theirs,
See merry joy abound,
three stars of brave celebrated,
only heroes around.