Doe it birth from veneration,
Or fear, or sway?
The biblical cadence,
With which he calls your name
A prayer, of mercy
Or a hymn of praise
Lilts of his tongue,
So devoid of grace
It caresses the winds,
It folds and braids
So artful, so masterful
How so very innate
Yet missing something,
What? No one says
An act of submission
Of such distaste
So little of you to love
So little to say
The silver tongue
It undulates
In serpentine fashion
It does evocate
Passion past words
Fruits forbade
Speak naught of lies,
That it says
With little regret
No morsel of shame
A DESI MUFFIN 