By Harini Mahadevan

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A glorious assortment of alphabets.
An angel descended from paradise,
It binds the soul to the flesh.
A hungry mongrel, sucking the blood our from veins.

Four letters, stretched into an ocean,
An endless trail beneath the wild blue yonder,
Only to plunge into the cold,
To lay rotten,
In the bowels of the earth,
One day or another.

Night upon night,
Darkness presses close,
Yet, we linger on,
To set eyes upon the dawn.

Warrior, they say, forth to ride,
Against the raging tide.
Clinging, as to dear life, to hope,
A mere fool’s hope.

The high sea,
A wicked emperor,
Neither heart nor soul, a mere mind.
A crafty contraption,
Gnarled, more than the roots of the oldest tree.

A liquid vastness, spraying its deadly weapons,
Souls set to conquer have all but sunk.
What hope, they ask, against this doom?
Yet, amidst the gloom,
The sun sparkles,
The rays lighting up this foggy journey.

An expedition,
Some set out with a titanic to their fall,
While some linger longer with a mere log.
Raging storms, swallow whole ships,
Yet, some pass unscraped.
One day, dolphins jester you,
The other, pirates pester you.
A chance island, waiting for you,
With mountains of gold,
Or a fire breathing monster, burning your soul.

A labyrinth, yet to be fathomed.
Hold on to your oars,
Look to the light,
And as legends foretold,
Go on.

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