The eternal

The flute sings the great tales,

of land where the God hails, 

the strings ring in chords of three, 

of places where the soul is free, 

the voice deep shall in tune sing, 

of how the harps in his halls cling, 

a song shall rise of a content mind, 

that shall its truth to heirs unwind.

The death affliction inspires fear, 

and tells you how your wrath is near, 

the sick voice prays as it pains, 

the bad blood grieves in visible veins, 

 such is the health when one bows down, 

in chants enchanted by the crown, 

that shines and glitters in radiance, 

bore by a head that's vieled to the audience.

Calm and serene waves run on sands, 

to wet his feet in barren lands, 

his heart strays on atoms and stars, 

and how insignificant are human wars, 

the vastness of universe mesmerizes, 

and in his head the setting sun rises, 

to the Lord in mask he writes a praise, 

for hiding behind the clouds and haze.

Happy, sad and lost in the dreams, 

one kneels in stewardship of his realms.

Selfish, caring and random thought, 

or a wish that was never sought, 

one prays to God to offer his wish, 

and embraces the idea of being a fish, 

lives in the sea where waters are green, 

and never sees the sunshine sheen. 

God is a song of heavenly tune, 

sung in a camp of barren dune, 

sing the grace of nature and life, 

and of the troughs of dooming strife.