The king of Mushire*
A polymath and a brave warrior that he was
Always rode on a swift quadriga,
Knitted with extreme dreams of superiority
Routine serpentine queues of faces,
Saluted and greeted the monarch
A thick air of pride surrounded him-
Never knew not he the bitterness of downfall
Or the soaring games of fate-
Until the occult witch of darkness ,
Diminished the lines of fame on his palm
Deviated was his life into total darkness.
Defeated was he in the great battle
And banished from his own town!
Nothing remained in the so-called ‘prosperous land’
For that of serpentine queues of stenched bodies,
And slaves dumped into wicked wagons of fate
The king who would have dreamt
A grandiloquent cremation
Ended up slotted into pieces
Deserted on his limping blood-smeared horses
Nothing remained, nothing prevailed
This is a harsh game
A game in which the supreme lord decides
The immanent game of Fate!
Note : One of my highschool days’ poem that I penned.
*Mushire — An imaginary kingdom.