You say I should bear it. I will.
Pinnacles of glory snatched from my hands,
depression imposed upon my near triumphant heart.
But I need no solace; no solace I need, I know
for I am not a flower trampled in the stampede of cattle
in the childhood of its fragrant blossoming youth
that has no chance to resurrect to bloom again
and question the cruelty of the incorrigible world.
Nor am I a distant star – insignificant is whose existence –
overshadowed by the glittering success of its neighbours.
For how long can success elude?

Beware! O Saturn and the evil allied in my path,
I will be back! Mine is the war – battle may’ve been yours.
Doesn’t Apollo win back his throne from millions every morn?
They will melt – the pinching remarks, the spearlike taunts,
the whispering tongues and the pointing fingers on my intellect;
for taunts, for years we’ve seen, last inasmuch as the failures do.
Gloom, I have thine epitaph ready, wilt have to perish thee.
It won’t be long before I realize my tryst with fate.
I have returned, you will see; the caverns are not for me.
The glittering sky, the blowing wind and the pearls of dew ‘n’ rain,
I promise you all I’ll return; wait for me, O wait!

From the author's first book of poems Anhadnad (2000).