The Slave:
Petals of rose dipped in scarlet, tossed by the wind
And frozen by the fond memories of such youth
That falters not with flickering faces or the truth
And doesn’t make a dark heart or numbered mind.
And there stands the pillar, there flows the river,
There you see a thousand mutiny now question.
Who said these clouds will settle on a mountain top?
Who said these ocean won’t touch the sky so blue?
With time’s drape all things utterly change to tune;
The Sun won’t die, the maddening sea nor the moon,
But all that we feel, we know, shall be washed soon.
What profit my verse will do to this crowded sea,
If not touch every soul, and not stand like a tree?
The Master:
No master will ever free his slave, nor will inspire;
But make them worthy enough to dream freedom.
No master will give enough bread to live forever;
But memories that will make you dream your home.
No master ever will pamper your hectored hymns;
But will leave you with enough tales of loved dreams.
The Slave:
I now know why my kind is like a nomad not nursed,
No names, no lineage, but a creed so much cursed.
Will I be free, will I write ever for my rose with no fear;
‘Those petals dipped in scarlet, tossed by the wind’?
The Master:
What if I declare you free and give a baton to lead?
Your bondage is not of the being but of an old mind.
Go now, for the verse, or to the universe and feed
Every soul with love enough and true peace to find.
You are the slave and the master of your being;
You are the song so divine and one that you’d sing.
The Soul's Whisper 