Glory to the Seed
written by: Pramod Rastogi
If my muse had not been you,
My canvas would sleep in a corner
Ravaged by insects and in dust,
And the garden of my verses
Which so jealously I tend
Would only bloom to the sirens
Of buds withered and in ruins.
I have carved my reputation
Of a painter, funny and profane,
Who captures your every feign
In colors, smiling and sane,
By serving you as his model
To harness you on a canvas
In your countless shades.
Each shade of yours is a pose
Only you know how to hold.
I have also carved my reputation
Of a poet, nonchalant and reserved,
Whose inspiration you serve.
A rush of panic runs up his nerves
Each time he lets loose a fantasy
In search of a metaphor for his verse
That would peel off shades of reverie,
Seized in the wilds of your mystery.
In the aesthetic figure you own
Which from head to toe plunders
This poet’s eyes and which in witness
Of your beauty pure and breathless
Go on a wild roller coaster ride,
The stream of verses he pours out
Are apt to put Romeos in flames
And his genius in sure acclaim.
My muse, in respect to you I bow
For boldly flaunting your glow
As a volunteer in flesh and blood
And as if made for me in divine joy
And who so blushful in her sighs and beauty
Has allowed me to dig in my canny spirit
To paint and versify her for my sole fancy.
Glory to the seed, without it a flower
Might never have made it to the scene.
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