Now for the Vagabond
So call troth (faith) of the vagrant
Turned around in the cycling moves;
Somewhere from the aloofness of this lullaby,
And the lumbago still is domineering.
The colours one by one,
Timed out from the sky;
Darkness in the ageing blues,
But the Ponderings still high.
Do sometimes those eyes lie?
A vagabond rusted the folios of destiny;
Dilemma out of fortunes survive,
And he denies.
Some justice though out of books,
Real out coming overlooked;
And the elusive vagabond speaks,
Sometimes he sneaks.
Heat triggered hard on the ice;
And blown to ashes;
The Nights and the moon slaughtered,
Daylight trapped and captured.
Love frustrated and agonised;
That dirty ragamuffin thundered,
And some one ventured;
Blow by blow he slows.
An ultimate reason ends with a question,
Never answered, though now
Some beatitude is expectorant
And my deportment supposedly filtered;
I know the gloaming,
And the falsehood within the pulse;
The faience somehow cracked, Earthenware decorated with colorful opaque glazes
The last oppressed is now my impulse;
We for the Milky Way and more,
Caring though for the life it bore;
Your jingoism – but one soul,
Long journey for me and more.
Sometimes circumstances pretend,
And the satire all versed;
But what is for the premises left?
