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| Far from home, the Lord's followers have gathered,
to celebrate the homecoming of His glorious victory.
Memories of childhood when those bright lights glimmered,
destroyed ill hatred and slew evil misery.
Let love and hope prevail, the gentle Lord's command,
exiled for long years, long years spent apart.
'tis time for celebration, the loyal brethren demand,
spread goodwill and joy - into every beating heart.
"Let the lights burn fiery bright, as a symbol,
the defeat of evil and the triumph of good."
Thus it stands, for eons, the mighty Lord's fable,
the raging storms of time, it has withstood.
Celebrating every happy memory, beneath His holy hand,
men and women of every race, across the Lord's land.
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Happy Diwali!
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 Not unlike the victorious warrior of Spartan fame,
with upright charge that demands a gallant heart.
Furious undertaking that ignites an inquisitive frame,
often pricks, a steadfast pledge -- a glorious start.
Not without a whiff of self important arrogance,
the human disposition -- but a derelict design.
The tolerant few battle conceit -- strike a distance,
portray stiff difference, despite persuasive incline.
Between untowered kingdoms -- they defy uneven chance,
ransoms paid in full, while fate spells grim defeat.
Only Vitruvian blood be spared -- an oft-inane stance,
wash yourselves off unsteady thoughts, malice and deceit.
Unrestrained and unwary men seed great thought,
spartan discipline sparks victory into every battle fought.
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The long worn uneven streets dream away at night,
of seven little tempest-tost sea rocks that became one.
The city of lepers and kings burns fiery bright,
with similes and tears of hundreds under her scorching sun. Her Arabian sands have seen much blood,
she weeps each night for her teeming shores.
"Oh little man, of my soil and blood,
you've brought hatred through my hallowed doors." "Struck me with your indifference, your sarcasm, and more,
you forget the truth, and truth it is you know -
I'm your mother, your wife, your wretched whore,
a therapeutic escape", she would bellow. Behold, tiny man - I stand here as shall I forever - the truth undone,
seven little islands - destined to be one.
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| Whatever happened to that sound? That one. It went pa-ra-pa-rum-pa-pa. And thick monotone. Some bastardised version of English. Or just something that went "mumble-ahem-mumble". Is it just me? I guess it got a little old. And portions of the target audience got a little wary. Started falling out in clumps. Or maybe, some new tune inspired defeat. Maybe. What do you think? It was all a little confusing at first. No? | | |
| I do not agree with what you have to say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it. Voltaire | | |
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