Diligently bestowing its largess profound,
Beamed that light, alabaster, on His desk abound
Beamed it night after night, with a hope consummate:
To glance its master, some day- when fortunate!

Came not He, came not true, that hope consummate;
For the master is of a different sort;
His evanescence- constant- from one to another port!
Devoir cannot shackle him, shackles him not any forethought-
Free is he, from man’s anxiety and chills of tomorrow’s lot!

But that light profound, beaming diligently found:
Night after night, with that hope consummate
Flicker it did not, retreat it could not,
For duty bade it, to lie await…

But its master is of a disparate sort,
Now in an ancient fort; then at an eerie moat;
Gawking at a child- squatting under the glimmers of street light:
Books in his laps reminds
Beaming is My light profound, but I am not to be bound…

Because master I am of my own destiny,
Beaming they find me, when in true symphony;
Breathe I in shore afar- saunter in lands, barren of bars;
Wake I under the Orange ball- slumber beneath the twinkling stars!

Because fugitive I am, of a distinctive sort
Steadfast is my evanescence, from one to another port!