Warrior of love
The day has come to an end.
The divine rays, drowned under dark haze.
He sits under a tree, not tired, not yet drained.
He is a warrior, a prince of fairytales.
But there are no battles, no wars to be raised.
He sits under the night sky,
Recalls the days, that have gone by.
He was a loner in the crowd, spent his life under the
shroud.
Enlightened, he has the prospects to be great, but
He has done nothing to be proud.
The rebel sits under the moon light.
He soaks in her love elegant and bright.
He contemplated-
Relationships are strange,
The all fall apart, in Bondage
Souls fly apart, in dearth of a cage.
It’s always complicated.
Love is more concrete,
It can be divine, can be sweet.
But can a warrior be a lover?
Love, that is not for blood or for war.
But for peace, beauty, for creative endeavour?
He came to win, to conquer, and to thrive.
So he will, with love not sword.
His heart is now, a heart of gold.
He is now a happy soul.
He wakes up, to a dawn.
It is a promising new morn.
But it’s not the sun, but the moon.
That showed him light,
She blessed him, with eyesight.
She erased his gloom.
She let his soul bloom.
She saved him from doom.
He walks now, towards her starry drape,
He discovers the city scape.
He discovers his life anew.
He solves all that is due.
His journey is now out of blue.
By Arka Patra
