Invocation to thecNectars or A few Lines to Wolfsbane

Invocation To The Nectars\A Few Lines To Wolfsbane

i
i am on a plain surrounded by dew
and the dark, purple hue of the monkshood.
Or is its colour such an euphoric blue?
Can the mind be awakened and find itself trodden?
Is the green an intricate fraud?
The purple flowers of the wolfsbane
Articulate a paradoxical trodden
Nature; we, in turn, are sod for its brain
and the dried roots hold the key to this pain.

ii

Oh, Aconitum, oh, pure Aconite!
i offer my yelp to your analgesic
Elements; could there be an untold fight?
What holds the secret to thy roots of magic?
i smell the purple and blue hues of this analgesic!
Will this cup hold me in your chariot?
Or will the juices guide me to thy tragic
Toll? Are you enough to aid these nocturnal fits?
O, woe is the touch of your blue, moist lips!








A Few Lines To Wolfsbane
iii
The green leaves engulfed by the bower
Have cultivated the elixir seeds
As i trekked the Brevent and stole its flower.
The North Wind slowly approached the meads
And disseminated the narcotic feed;
my inner chambers absorbed its honey!
Oh, if i could only attain that mead
But for one more moment of ecstasy
As that successful creature of a bee

iv
Pervasively hovers from bower to
Flower! It seems to sense the intrinsic risk
with those black anteriors of that hue.
Is it sentient amid the white mist
As it ascends to eulogise its verse?
It has succeeded the trek to Mont Blanc
Eschewing the golden analgesic glass.
Every year aroused pilgrims are drawn
to the zenith ; but how many are pawns
v
To the true power? And Koh-i Baba,
the Dinaric Alps, the Sulaiman Range?
What bustle is tantalised to their barbara?
Yet the world is focused on the t.v. cage
observing the lifeless Arkansas mange!
While the downtrodden are immersed in pain
The babel on the spermary gauge
count is relentless; yet i must drink the bane,
sleep amid the dew, and forget the forlorn pain.

vi
Oh, the intoxicating golden bee!
Its song resonates in my chamber
As i approach the purple honey
it circumscribes its terrain forever.
i must battle with its sting and be, be!
A voice utters from a chariot, “Courage!”
Is the bee aware of the clutter?
am i cognizant of it? and its rage?
Bee, Kosovo and me? express our page

vii
To the empty souls of the world to hear.
The Tutsi and the Hutu abandon
the ideals of peace and love because fear
is their vernacular; humans pardon
sins as grains of sand hear the world beckon:
“Rwanda and Uganda are foul with blood
While the powers of the world abandon
the post-colonial hands; cast in mud
and streams are breeds that will no longer bud”.