Is’nt that a welcome sight?
Happy faces, happy lives?
Sunshine and flowing locks of hair,
Some clean mountainous air.
What does this world need?
If not happy lives, at least, happy stories.
This one needs to be left untouched,
It is one fine ending, no worries.
In his quest for suffering,
The poet must move on.
Stuck neck deep in the past,
He needs a muse to come along.
Too busy scribbling amateurish poems,
Or trying to write that perfect song,
He must concentrate on tragic prose now,
It is perhaps, sometimes, not too late to right a wrong.
He has known hope,
Slightly distorted lips, really big eyes.
Now that he wishes to no longer cling on,
She just refuses to die.
But isn't it always right,
To let stories meet a natural end?
Natural is subjective, open to possibilities,
Exploring that, is my intent.
Ashutosh is dying,
He has little time left.
It is time to dedicate him a story deft,
Before he has permanently slept.
