The Muse

The muse , fallen from the heaven's window
by crime of love and curse of Gods
And now he murmurs softly , in humanely wounds,
And praises whats still beautiful in mortal bounds

The muse still paints but not in pain
the muse still sings but not in vain
 Yakshas of sky still inebriateupon his verse
Poet of heaven's most sacred source
 Apsaras dance to his beauteous songs
the Godly musician they always loved

But Love , the muse's only crime
The Love, the muse's only shrine ...

False Gods

My only love ,taken away, by a pact,

In which I was not asked to act

Stolen by robbers who are painted wise,

Extolled in their virtues , they spit my vice

And I was asked to guard the tomb,

Of my only love, her sacred womb

Bloody now my every thought in shame,

yet thence I have never cried the same

Lost forever in an untellable  play,

That I shall now hid my hideous clay

And my molten tears that bear,

A secret of her notorious wear

All drama for false Gods and chariots,

And a penny , or two or empty thoughts,

But My revenge would be marked forever

Wounded, In my embarrassed verse so clever.