The disaster

In multitude of eyes,
Away from parental views,
With pride given by foes,
Calmly, solely, she rides.

Abyss low, the fort beside,
Her soul wanders and slides.
In cold currents, the bride
Calculates her tides.

In the parental pouch,
Ornaments and riches
Pile up as heaps to catch
For her a better match.

‘Jewels by joy designed
To ravish the sensuous mind’
Lie in vain, fully blind,
Gloss and glamour to end.

Men of her clan, afar,
Stand, trimming collar
And query, ‘Who wins her
Hand to be lucky ever?’

Yes, while design and plan
For eventual act remain,
The Immanent Will gains
His sport for mortal pain,

With a sinister mate
For her- so gravely great,
A product of alien creed,
Low in breed, not in deed.

As the girl mutely grew
In stature, grace and hue,
Far down below there grew
A lad, earning her love.

Alien in match they seem,
No one could see pair’s aim,
Their blend in tying arms
That drifts them in still stream,

Or, the sign significant
That they are squarely bent
By paths coincident
To slip, anon, intent,

Till ‘the Spinner of the Years’
Nodded. To the bridal cheers,
Chased by parents’ jeers,
Elopement explodes near.

Man sorts; God sports.
17.12.2001, pakd