Rammed into his death wing, Satisfactory life did not spring, Having a discontented wife, He fought through his life. He looked for the spiritual feel, She looked for the material seal, Torrents of upheavals they faced, Moments of goodness they graced, He was not for rites and rituals, Which to his wife were credentials. Life for him was a waste, Death for him was in haste.
Orbital conflict is sacred, A goal for soul naked.
A poem from ‘Serenading Poems Part One’
