Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only
Croak and wither.

Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily
Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us.
he fen sickens.

Frost drops even the spider. Clearly
The genius of plenitude
Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin
Lamentably.

As a drop of tear
left my eyes
and wetted the stone
that treasures a life
I heard the chirrups
of the flock of birds
that joyously flew
along the beautiful skies
that reclines in peace  
above the world within me
turning it a paradise
of my mother's memories

Amidst this heaven
as I tardily walked
awed by the aroma
its splendour spread
I glimpsed a bird
who briskly touched
the face of a river
whose waves revealed
the silver reflection,
a handful of which
my mother once borrowed
to embellish her love
that lives no more
in a memory alone

Amidst this heaven
as I tardily walked
I glimpsed another
who perched a tree
the taste of whose shade
as I sat to savour
the canopy of branches
showered upon me
a myriad flowers
the petals of which
were the drops of rain
my mother once brewed
from the cloud of love
that sprinkles no more
only in a memory
in a memory alone

Amidst this heaven
as I tardily walked
I glimpsed another
whose feathers danced
to the symphonies within
the ode of a breeze
whose tunes once bid
my mother's lips
to lullaby me
beyond a door
where the waves of my sleep
rowed me as a shell
to the shores of my dream
where fantasy dwells
the lullaby made dumb
cradles me no more
but sings in a memory
in a memory alone

An eternal desire
to my mother who lives
in a memory alone
as an immortal epic
flow out indeed
as the river of love
in your womb I shall sleep
as a foetus in wait
to be born as your son
as an infant wave
the cries of whom
shall vanish the gems
your loss once scattered    
as a legacy that shone
for ages and ages
across the skies,
darkened by your shadows
that solely survived.

[Greek: Mellonta  sauta’]

These things are in the future.

Sophocles—’Antig.’

‘Una.’

“Born again?”

‘Monos.’

Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, “born again.” These were
the words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long
pondered, rejecting the explanations of the priesthood,
until Death itself resolved for me the secret.

‘Una.’

Death!

‘Monos.’

How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I
observe, too, a vacillation in your step, a joyous
inquietude in your eyes. You are confused and oppressed by
the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal. Yes, it was of
Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word
which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts,
throwing a mildew upon all pleasures!

‘Una.’

Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often,
Monos, did we lose ourselves in speculations upon its
nature! How mysteriously did it act as a check to human
bliss, saying unto it, “thus far, and no farther!” That
earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned within our
bosoms, how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy
in its first upspringing that our happiness would strengthen
with its strength! Alas, as it grew, so grew in our hearts
the dread of that evil hour which was hurrying to separate
us forever! Thus in time it became painful to love. Hate
would have been mercy then.

‘Monos’.

Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una—mine, mine
forever now!

‘Una’.

But the memory of past sorrow, is it not present joy? I have
much to say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I
burn to know the incidents of your own passage through the
dark Valley and Shadow.

‘Monos’.

And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in
vain? I will be minute in relating all, but at what point
shall the weird narrative begin?

‘Una’.

At what point?

‘Monos’.

You have said.

‘Una’.

Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the
propensity of man to define the indefinable. I will not say,
then, commence with the moment of life’s cessation—but
commence with that sad, sad instant when, the fever having
abandoned you, you sank into a breathless and motionless
torpor, and I pressed down your pallid eyelids with the
passionate fingers of love.

‘Monos’.

One word first, my Una, in regard to man’s general condition
at this epoch. You will remember that one or two of the wise
among our forefathers—wise in fact, although not in
the world’s esteem—had ventured to doubt the propriety
of the term “improvement,” as applied to the progress of our
civilization. There were periods in each of the five or six
centuries immediately preceding our dissolution when arose
some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those
principles whose truth appears now, to our disenfranchised
reason, so utterly obvious —principles which should
have taught our race to submit to the guidance of the
natural laws rather than attempt their control. At long
intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each
advance in practical science as a retrogradation in the true
utility. Occasionally the poetic intellect—that
intellect which we now feel to have been the most exalted of
all—since those truths which to us were of the most
enduring importance could only be reached by that analogy
which speaks in proof-tones to the imagination alone,
and to the unaided reason bears no weight—occasionally
did this poetic intellect proceed a step farther in the
evolving of the vague idea of the philosophic, and find in
the mystic parable that tells of the tree of knowledge, and
of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct
intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant
condition of his soul. And these men—the poets—
living and perishing amid the scorn of the
“utilitarians”—of rough pedants, who arrogated to
themselves a title which could have been properly applied
only to the scorned—these men, the poets, pondered
piningly, yet not unwisely, upon the ancient days when our
wants were not more simple than our enjoyments were
keen—days when mirth was a word unknown, so
solemnly deep-toned was happiness—holy, august, and
blissful days, blue rivers ran undammed, between hills
unhewn, into far forest solitudes, primeval, odorous, and
unexplored. Yet these noble exceptions from the general
misrule served but to strengthen it by opposition. Alas! we
had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil days. The
great “movement”—that was the cant term—went on:
a diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art—the
Arts—arose supreme, and once enthroned, cast chains
upon the intellect which had elevated them to power. Man,
because he could not but acknowledge the majesty of Nature,
fell into childish exultation at his acquired and still-
increasing dominion over her elements. Even while he stalked
a God in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over
him. As might be supposed from the origin of his disorder,
he grew infected with system, and with abstraction. He
enwrapped himself in generalities. Among other odd ideas,
that of universal equality gained ground; and in the face of
analogy and of God—in despite of the loud warning
voice of the laws of gradation so visibly pervading
all things in Earth and Heaven—wild attempts at an
omniprevalent Democracy were made. Yet this evil sprang
necessarily from the leading evil, Knowledge. Man could not
both know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking cities arose,
innumerable. Green leaves shrank before the hot breath of
furnaces. The fair face of Nature was deformed as with the
ravages of some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet Una,
even our slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-
fetched might have arrested us here. But now it appears that
we had worked out our own destruction in the ******* of
our taste, or rather in the blind neglect of its
culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this crisis
that taste alone—that faculty which, holding a middle
position between the pure intellect and the moral sense,
could never safely have been disregarded—it was now
that taste alone could have led us gently back to Beauty, to
Nature, and to Life. But alas for the pure contemplative
spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for the [Greek:
mousichae]  which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient
education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!—since
both were most desperately needed, when both were most
entirely forgotten or despised. Pascal, a philosopher whom
we both love, has said, how truly!—”Que tout notre
raisonnement se reduit a ceder au sentiment;” and it is
not impossible that the sentiment of the natural, had time
permitted it, would have regained its old ascendency over
the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But this thing
was not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of
knowledge, the old age of the world drew near. This the mass
of mankind saw not, or, living lustily although unhappily,
affected not to see. But, for myself, the Earth’s records
had taught me to look for widest ruin as the price of
highest civilization. I had imbibed a prescience of our Fate
from comparison of China the simple and enduring, with
Assyria the architect, with Egypt the astrologer, with
Nubia, more crafty than either, the turbulent mother of all
Arts. In the history of these regions I met with a ray from
the Future. The individual artificialities of the three
latter were local diseases of the Earth, and in their
individual overthrows we had seen local remedies applied;
but for the infected world at large I could anticipate no
regeneration save in death. That man, as a race, should not
become extinct, I saw that he must be “born again.”

And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our
spirits, daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we
discoursed of the days to come, when the Art-scarred surface
of the Earth, having undergone that purification which alone
could efface its rectangular obscenities, should clothe
itself anew in the verdure and the mountain-slopes and the
smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at length a fit
dwelling-place for man:—for man the
Death-purged—for man to whose now exalted intellect
there should be poison in knowledge no more—for the
redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal, but still
for the material, man.

‘Una’.

Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the
epoch of the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we
believed, and as the corruption you indicate did surely
warrant us in believing. Men lived; and died individually.
You yourself sickened, and passed into the grave; and
thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And though
the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion
brings up together once more, tortured our slumbering senses
with no impatience of duration, yet my Monos, it was a
century still.

‘Monos’.

Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably,
it was in the Earth’s dotage that I died. Wearied at heart
with anxieties which had their origin in the general turmoil
and decay, I succumbed to the fierce fever. After some few
days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium replete with
ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for pain,
while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you—after
some days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless
and motionless torpor; and this was termed Death by
those who stood around me.

Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of
sentience. It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the
extreme quiescence of him, who, having slumbered long and
profoundly, lying motionless and fully prostrate in a mid-
summer noon, begins to steal slowly back into consciousness,
through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without being
awakened by external disturbances.

I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had
ceased to beat. Volition had not departed, but was
powerless. The senses were unusually active, although
eccentrically so—assuming often each other’s functions
at random. The taste and the smell were inextricably
confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense.
The rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened my
lips to the last, affected me with sweet fancies of
flowers—fantastic flowers, far more lovely than any of
the old Earth, but whose prototypes we have here blooming
around us. The eye-lids, transparent and bloodless, offered
no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in
abeyance, the ***** could not roll in their sockets—
but all objects within the range of the visual hemisphere
were seen with more or less distinctness; the rays which
fell upon the external retina, or into the corner of the
eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which struck
the front or interior surface. Yet, in the former instance,
this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated it only
as sound—sound sweet or discordant as the
matters presenting themselves at my side were light or dark
in shade—curved or angular in outline. The hearing, at
the same time, although excited in degree, was not irregular
in action—estimating real sounds with an extravagance
of precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had
undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were
tardily received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted
always in the highest physical pleasure. Thus the pressure
of your sweet fingers upon my eyelids, at first only
recognized through vision, at length, long after their
removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight
immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. All my
perceptions were purely sensual. The materials furnished the
passive brain by the senses were not in the least degree
wrought into shape by the deceased understanding. Of pain
there was some little; of pleasure there was much; but of
moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs
floated into my ear with all their mournful cadences, and
were appreciated in their every variation of sad tone; but
they were soft musical sounds and no more; they conveyed to
the extinct reason no intimation of the sorrows which gave
them birth; while large and constant tears which fell upon
my face, telling the bystanders of a heart which broke,
thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy alone. And
this was in truth the Death of which these bystanders
spoke reverently, in low whispers—you, sweet Una,
gaspingly, with loud cries.

They attired me for the coffin—three or four dark
figures which flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed
the direct line of my vision they affected me as forms;
but upon passing to my side their images impressed me
with the idea of shrieks, groans, and, other dismal
expressions of terror, of horror, or of woe. You alone,
habited in a white robe, passed in all directions musically
about.

The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became
possessed by a vague uneasiness—an anxiety such as the
sleeper feels when sad real sounds fall continuously within
his ear—low distant bell-tones, solemn, at long but
equal intervals, and commingling with melancholy dreams.
Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It
oppressed my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight,
and was palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not unlike
the distant reverberation of surf, but more continuous,
which, beginning with the first twilight, had grown in
strength with the darkness. Suddenly lights were brought
into the rooms, and this reverberation became forthwith
interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound,
but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous oppression
was in a great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame
of each lamp (for there were many), there flowed unbrokenly
into my ears a strain of melodious monotone. And when now,
dear Una, approaching the bed upon which I lay outstretched,
you sat gently by my side, breathing odor from your sweet
lips, and pressing them upon my brow, there arose
tremulously within my *****, and mingling with the merely
physical sensations which circumstances had called forth, a
something akin to sentiment itself—a feeling that,
half appreciating, half responded to your earnest love and
sorrow; but this feeling took no root in the pulseless
heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and
faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then
into a purely sensual pleasure as before.

And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses,
there appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all
perfect. In its exercise I found a wild delight—yet a
delight still physical, inasmuch as the understanding had in
it no part. Motion in the animal frame had fully ceased. No
muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no artery throbbed. But
there seemed to have sprung up in the brain that of
which no words could convey to the merely human intelligence
even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental
pendulous pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of man’s
abstract idea of Time. By the absolute equalization
of this movement—or of such as this—had the
cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves been adjusted. By
its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock upon the
mantel, and of the watches of the attendants. Their tickings
came sonorously to my ears. The slightest deviations from
the true proportion—and these deviations were
omniprevalent—affected me just as violations of
abstract truth were wont on earth to affect the moral sense.
Although no two of the timepieces in the chamber struck the
individual seconds accurately together, yet I had no
difficulty in holding steadily in mind the tones, and the
respective momentary errors of each. And this—this
keen, perfect self-existing sentiment of
duration—this sentiment existing (as man could
not possibly have conceived it to exist) independently of
any succession of events—this idea—this sixth
sense, upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first
obvious and certain step of the intemporal soul upon the
threshold of the temporal eternity.

It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others
had departed from the chamber of Death. They had deposited
me in the coffin. The lamps burned flickeringly; for this I
knew by the tremulousness of the monotonous strains. But
suddenly these strains diminished in distinctness and in
volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my nostrils died
aw

As I sauntered on banks of Yamuna at night.
I saw a man old, bent, with stick in dhoti white.
Tardily, step by step as he came nearer to me.
With joy I smiled as our own beloved Bapu was he.

With tears in my eyes I asked, ' Bapu you are still alive! ,
those three bullets holed your chest, how did you survive?
What happened to you? Where were you all these days?
What you ate? How you lived? Now where do you stay?

Condition of your beloved land is deteriorating day by day.
Countrymen have left your path, they have gone astray.
Your image, your killers are trying to malign and degrade.
Berating your ways, encouraging means which you forbade.

******'s advocates on chariots are traversing Nation's length.
Day by day Fascism is gaining ground , gaining strength.
Disguised as followers of Sri Ram, deeds of Ravan they do.
Riots and killings are frequent, women and minors are targeted too.

Terrorism nourishing on terrorism, cruelty at its worst.
Targeting anyone, anywhere, time and again bombs burst.
Once a land of peace, land of sufism, land of saints,
now ******. Innocent souls being killed without restraint.

Regionalism is being encouraged and taking roots.
Unity of the Nation selfish politicians reduce and dilute.
Corruption is increasing everywhere and in all spheres
Even highest office of respect could not keep itself clear '

Passing his hand over my head he smiled and said '
I am just a spirit, long ago my weak body was dead.
Daily with expectation I rise and daily with despair I die
Daily my hope is shattered and daily with grief I sigh

They may have killed me but now I live in numerous hearts
They may write me down in history yet my message will dart.
See this flag, colour saffron is dear to me, colour green I love.
between them is colour white, colour of peace, colour of dove.

Nation divided in three hurts me more than bullets three
From casteism and regionlism country should be free.
Communalism should not be allowed to raise its ugly head.
With sword of constitution Fascism we need to behead '

Three sound disturbed the calm, beloved Bapu fell on the ground
I went to help but Bapu vanished with words 'Hey Ram' echoing around
Determined that this time his innocent blood will not go waste.
I collected his non-violent blood in my pen like ink with haste.

Look at you now, tiny speck, falling from the sky.
Tardily as ever, with not so much as a worldly tie.
Showy, sparkly stardust you can never aspire to be.
Yet, there is a certain anomaly to your normalcy.

Oh speck of dust, you know naught where you truly belong.
In the strong arms of the wind, mindlessly floating along.
At times you may coalesce with the specks in your way,
But then again, feel the fleeting need to flee far astray

And now the cold, cold wind is letting you go.
You seem to be spiralling- sinking ever so low.
Parting with everything you've ever known, I trust?
Yet you can't have ties when you're a speck of dust.

Poor lost speck, as they clean you away, you groan.
But you can only be lost if a home you've ever known.
Worry not, for while they may sweep you off in a gust,
Can you ever really destroy dust?

A poet's cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in *****,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick--
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mould philosophique,
Or else she learn'd it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonair,
An apple-tree or lofty pear,
Lodg'd with convenience in the fork,
She watch'd the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty wat'ring-***;
There, wanting nothing save a fan
To seem some nymph in her sedan,
Apparell'd in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.

     But love of change, it seems, has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel, as well as we,
That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Expos'd her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within:
She therefore wish'd instead of those
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton with her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.

     A drawer, it chanc'd, at bottom lin'd
With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the ladies' use--
A drawer impending o'er the rest,
Half-open in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there;
**** with delight beyond expression
Survey'd the scene, and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease ere long,
And lull'd by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclin'd
The chambermaid, and shut it fast;
By no malignity impell'd,
But all unconscious whom it held.

     Awaken'd by the shock, cried ****,
"Was ever cat attended thus!
The open drawer was left, I see,
Merely to prove a nest for me.
For soon as I was well compos'd,
Then came the maid, and it was clos'd.
How smooth these kerchiefs, and how sweet!
Oh, what a delicate retreat!
I will resign myself to rest
Till Sol, declining in the west,
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,
Susan will come and let me out."

     The evening came, the sun descended,
And **** remain'd still unattended.
The night roll'd tardily away
(With her indeed 'twas never day),
The sprightly morn her course renew'd,
     The evening gray again ensued,
And **** came into mind no more
han if entomb'd the day before.
With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room,
She now presag'd approaching doom,
Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd,
Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd.

     That night, by chance, the poet watching
Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat
And to himself he said, "What's that?"
He drew the curtain at his side,
And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied;
Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd
Something imprison'd in the chest,
And, doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolv'd it should continue there.
At length a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Consol'd him, and dispell'd his fears:
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without stop
The rest in order to the top;
For 'tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In ev'ry cranny but the right.
Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond apprehension
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest
Anything rather than a chest.
Then stepp'd the poet into bed,
With this reflection in his head:

MORAL

Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence.
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around in all that's done
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.

Walking on highways
Lighting as byways

Smiling with sourness
Eyes held distress

High on pills
Dancing on heels

Way is too hazy
Eyes are too blurry

Suffering to self
Squealing to cars

Back home tardily
On bed sadly

Waking up greasy
Back to routine as daily

I've fallen so many times hoping i'll get to you
been down for the longest time still waiting for you
It got me so long to realise i had no chance with you
guess now dead or alive it wouldn't matter to you
Days now shall pass by differently,time is all it takes to make my pain fade tardily ..
it's me who's hurt & it's you who's gone ,looking at it this way makes it even harder to move on.

The approach of dawn
and the chilly cold breeze,
the languid movement of trees
and the dance of bush
underneath.

The shroud of stars
covering the sky
and the proudish gaze of moon
appreciating self
on the lake mirror with a fetish eye.

The small grains of sand
moving steadily
as though musical piano keys
hugging each other
to generate the rhythmic tease.

The wind blowing tardily
flows through the alley of mystic mountains
rendering a slow and steady euphony
into thou's veins like a fountain.

Such was the beauty of those nights
miles away from home
into the arms of nature
and the perfect company
longing from years,
marks the beginning
of the best days
coming in the near future.

This is Africa
My feet need a deep clean
Stained red and dusty
More than just *****

This is Africa
My clothes stick to me
I wouldn’t want to smell me
I’m hot beyond sweaty

This is Africa
I’m a sight worth seeing
A target for street traders
My skin is impressive so it seams

This is Africa
Where the fruits grow so tasty
But prices are doubled for me
Yet they’re worth it

This is Africa
Where the people seam happy
Whilst living life more simply
Even when stretching to raise money

This is Africa
Where time has no certainty
Motion no stress or urgency
Things just happen more tardily

This is Africa
Where police are bought at a fee
People roam with guns and machete
But we’ve not seen them used

This is Africa
And it’s welcomed me
So much I don’t want to leave
I just want more

There once was a girl
With a basket full of dreams
Wearing a cape of hope
Walking to her grandma’s house on the other side of the wood
Her steps were brisk
The road was paved
With flowers grown on each side of the way
But as she walked the sunlight began to dim
And long black trees started to enclose the road
Her brisk movements became tardily steps
As she found herself lost deep in the wood
The heart of the wood was dark and foggy
Concealing a creature with sharp claws
Gleaming like two yellow jewels
Were the wolf’s perilous eyes
The eyes didn’t seek the girl
But the precious things she holds
A basket of dreams and a cape of hope
The wood was empty and the girl was scared
But the wolf, generously, gave her a choice
A sacrifice she must make
If she wanted to get out alive
She must give him the things dearest to her heart
She didn’t have a choice, or did she?
To yield peacefully or fight bravely
What do you think the little girl chose?
What would you if you were standing in her shoes?
Alone with a wolf in a ******* woods.

When looks don't adore
When riches don't count
When strength don't daunt
Peace should rule the world

See things through
Believe the truth
There's no where to go
Will they ever come to know?

Help, Help, screamed the weak
Look yourself, you smell weak
Noticed the aroma tardily reeks
Caught up with reality's deeds

Her mind resurrected
And reclaimed it's reign over her kingdom
After all the stones,
Who knew a pebble would free the heart?

Her majesty rose,
All the seas went calm and bowed
The parting of the seas felt between her ribs
Tardily and gracefully strolling
Every step  ground shaking
And finally she stood before her throne
Wore her crown and raised her sceptre
And to all it was known,
The Queen had ressurected