Nobel Prize


What I had no hope of ever nearing in,
Until the madman streak spread like lightning.
Through the third eye, battling the heart, bathing
The finger tips, inking words.

Yes, everyone calls me “mad, beyond repair”
And so, I will act like a real madman.

A crane lifting her wings effortlessly
Knowing she could only fly to a paltry height,
Now looks almost a gazing falcon, who looks down
At the falconer, with the changing color
Of irises, turning bold brown, eagle-like.

And one day there will be no altitude too far.
No coconut tree, azure sky or lofty exosphere
Only a sequence of Sartre, Pasternak and Duc Tho
Waiting to be filled by a slot vacated by fate.

The legacy of transcending hundreds of icons
By the sheer iconoclasm of stripping the world of her many skins,
Establishment of her heart, deracinating
Apathy from her roots, and pedigree off a prize.

And be, not just another god of fickle deed,
Showing the mettle of his teeth.

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