(First and Last lines taken from Paradise Lost).*

Through Eden took their solitary way,
the contemporary mind, page by page,
sitting idly on his soft bed and modern age,
witnessed the injustice, far away.

“Not today’s fault,” cries the observer.
“It is for the first man to pay.”
There is no reason a mind so clever,
could muster in its wavering faith.

What fault was his in such arrange?
Was he to pay for something so estranged?
Was it his own pain to ache?
Was it not years, years too late?

But away from his leathered book,
off to the pristine white of a winter’s day,
his eyes wander, and cry his inner grey.

His hand would abate this fray.
For if love can cast out hate,
In love, His grace will satiate.

What could he understand?
Isn’t feeling all he knows?
It is in the tears, the gentle hands–
In grace, His love will flow.

For if the stars are in our veins,
and hidden lives in a single verse,
if there are wonders in the mundane,
and even more in the lofty universe,

How could one aspire,–
How could someone underestimate–
to audaciously take life’s fires,
and in his mind, encapsulate?

So the man decides for sweet abandon.
And finds that in his soul it would suit,
to trust someone with infinite compassion,
as he read the story of the devil’s loot,
*of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit.