I rise form lengthened moments’ bindings
where duty’s penance scolds me.
I rise to grapple pleasure’s windings
and pay with peace of mind for thee…
for thee, my pen, who counts as friend
my blotter’s adept taming,
who from your harshest scrawling rends
the truth without a shaming
pool of India’s shade.
Our subtle struggle finds it mark
between the rush of blood and haste,
that bends the quill to matters dark
imbibing in the frozen taste
that surety tinged with pallor,
that turned the wine from blood,
that wrote to claim heroic valor
of the throngs of dead left in the flood,
and there we acquiesce in trade.
O! Angels come to save this heart!
O! Come to turn this page!
Kindly cast a blessing’s start
that steals the sweetness from the rage
that slaves between the pen and pulp
suspended twixt my mind and hand!
O! Push the pride of pen to gulp
the essence of this dream so grand!
Please guide the wounded hidden proof!
At last the peace resounds in song.
At last the echo finds its mates.
Cut across the injured page
in long and sweetest strokes it states,
“Herein my soul in truth belongs
to what a moment’s freedom gains,
that passion for the perfect song
is sealed in treaty’s loving stains
and partnership of truth,
that from the wetted pen stems youth
and from the blotter age!”