The Rusty Sword

 As soon I ascended the chariot,

I saw the dusty ways around,

Enigmatic and confusing fields,

Mawkish and haze in breath profound,

All I had to beat the odds,

My legendary shining silver sword,

Waved in the dust and all clear I saw,

To my ecstasy, I intensified in guffaw.

Gaily and gaily came the warriors,

The hatred of souls and jealousy indeed,

I lynched and killed and cut them apart,

My silver sword did sickle those obnoxious weed.

And then I rode the chariot with pride,

With sword so high and blood to guide,

I cleaned the bloody silver sword,

And saw the rust on tip of accord.

The formidable sword lost its luster,

With every blood drop on its cluster,

With each flesh it pierced upon,

The rust intensified on and on,

A point came on the way,

The scabbard went on to say,

Thy sword is swarthy, ain’t a silver pride,

I reject to accept, thou kicked heart aside.

His words almost tore me apart,

My honour of lynching almost died,

I ensconced my sword under chariot seat,

In agony of my weapon’s loss,

I cried, Sobbed and gained little courage,

To drive my chariot away from battle,

Inquisitive heart and mind,

Huge questions to settle.

Finally, I reached on verge of a place,

Away from the netherworld,

To question The God about my pride

And hear answers from the leader of Harold.

All I did was only one thing,

Honoured my Lord with the rusty weapon,

Questioned why His gift to me rusted,

How the elixir failed to happen.

He smiled at me with halo so bright,

His words came brighter than light,

He answered my sword was my soul,

And the blood I took was factored googol,

It integrated with jealousy and hatred,

My feelings for people depleted my soul,

The rust I saw was blood in my heart,

And feelings for human despicable as coal.

                                                                                                      ~Lakshay Nanda

                                                                                                       Indore, India

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