History is often a great fraud.
Plays a bad game of name, place and age
And holes us in isolated shelves
Even when hearts are in sync.
Freed from it all, along twilighted waves
I’d read to you poems of Pushkin and Keats
And finger my cords to melt with your notes
Nocturnal odes to moon and its reign
With which the old legends were graced.
-30-
Copyright©Madras Courier, All Rights Reserved. You may share using our article tools. Please don't cut articles from madrascourier.com and redistribute by email, post to the web, mobile phone or social media.Please send in your feed back and comments to editor@madrascourier.com
