Walking along the crowded lanes of a place called town,
I was looking for beauty in the midst of tall buildings
That were mere matter-of-fact shelters,
Made up of the sweat of masons and their task force;
The absence of a mind-moving magnificence in a frame
Denotes the death throb of the aesthetic order.
That a body without the soul is not a welfare state
But a wretched work house for hapless zombies,
Is what I picked up from my town- strolling point.
From within, did my sub conscious voice speak out
The truth, in a stentorian, soul – sustaining style.
Anything not designed to suit the soul
Stands to serve as a lamp post
Without hitting the pages of history for long, to be known.
It is the dreams and delights of an architect of finesse
That transform shelters into monuments
With a fascinating fitment formula for the soul,
To cherish and steer the dynamics of beauty
In forms that outlive the flow of time.
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