The uncrowned prince…

By Sudha

Every little hamlet of my enduring country knows

A leader, a chieftain and a bearer of the torch.

In every large piece of geography sows

Seeds of monarchy and sternly march.

Through ages and ages of unforeseen blows

Of Floods, famines and droughts that parch.

Those men of honour often took pride

In preparing their fortunes and fantasies, deeds that bear fruit,

Their lands and hearts with their hopes and their hide

Often their lasses grow wonderful, to the royalty suit.

And coronate their Princes with a profligate stride.

Daring not to overturn their traditions with deep root.

So did they wait in this malady-struck state

For never was it ruled ever by an emperor worthwhile

And had not the glimpse of any Human the Great.

Oh so lofty they talk of a King, of his benevolent smile

Of his prowess, price and prudence, and nothing abate

The pain of his absence in this two-hundred mile.

They search for a fit Lad and find one astray

Holding his head high in the glory of his independence.

Not having love for power, pretence and pay,

Firm and fun-loving and perceivable credence.

To bear the Crown and Wear it too, frequently they pray

And sulk in his abnegation, and his steely resolve's opulence.

They no longer wait for an exalted personality

To fill that void under an abandoned jewelled Crown.

Nor do they forget his mistaken pernicious charity

that fills meaningless mirth in every man in this town.

Days pass and she waits in her unacceptable disparity

Providence never favoured her as much as it made her frown.

The Lad knows no sin and the town knows it too

Unhealthy silence travels on dark horses, those streets.

Ghosts enter arguments on weariness and woo,

Cursing him, swearing and for her, no retreats.

Lo she drinks from her pot of venom, one or two

And manumits him, her Love, the Uncrowned Prince.

By Sudha