Next dawn

Mornings bring the news
that life is all there.
Bird chirp and sun rises.
Bard picks up the harp and surmises,
what could be the new song
to be sung through the day;
ocean of words will now
rise and stay.

Between the muses, amidst the chores
amidst the torrents, rarely on shores,
bard must get up,
and attend to the call.
Mild, wavering, emanating from soul
there it is diminutive,
there it is a whole.

The walk in the alley,
of the well endowed,
right through the shanties
of the disavowed,
there are voices, calling for the feast.
angel of the yore,
tangled by the beast,
misled and distracted,
fallen and protracted,
they must endure,
the karmic churn they bore.
Word of the song,
would blossom into flowers,
hanging from the sky
right till the shore.
Ages pass, waiting for the bard.
everyone yearned,
no one really sang,
every one waited,
no bells rang.

It is time, it is time
bird are chirping, sun is on the rise
bard must rise and play the harp,
in the alley of voices sharp,
Some, it will soothe,
and calm their cycles,
of the timeless binds, in the cage-less jungles
freedom may be far
but worlds will calm
word will balm,
with little hope and a little warmth,
Bard must sing through the age of the alley
Now  on till the dusk,
right through the night and
till the next dawn..

Bard must sing,
right till the next bard.