ATHEN MANICKAM
Here are whistling winds and roaring waves,
Oh, don’t push me into the pit of fire
Thundering sounds they run into caves,
stormy psyche, wait, wait in the mire.
Paul, come with me I shall show you a place,
Shall we mount up? Seldom there’s silence
Near the newly made grave behold the ruin’d palace,
Drunken revelry, sick with
desire and dance.
I’m without spectacle but they are visible
Is this the buried spot of my child feeble?
“Thou will not leave us in the dust”
Holy fire, we fear, we are like iron rust.
“Look up the sky, white clouds and wild
birds”
“No they are not birds but only Jet planes
Innocent children dear run out from the lanes
Once you promised them; are they mere words?”
Great gift of sleep falls on them,
Don’t blame the Bible and Him.
There’s ruin in the House of hill,
Still the winds blow bleak and shrill.
Saints! we hope to
live; we hope to die,
Night covers the land, no stars, bleeding
lip.
We’re deserted innocents sailing in the ship,
I’ve lost my spectacle, Thou’th lost thy key.