A long tiring journey; lids close
for the night, not for sleep;
Memories, some warm, some blase,
crowd in leaving no moss;
Under the blazing Sun, I take a peep
at one to let spirits rise;
He, on odd mix of mind and brain,
dallied with the wisdom of the Muse;
Self-made, well-travelled but withdrawn
he let his self warm into pen;
A student of Muse, not of its school.
Death nipped buds springing late;
A particle of faith, deathless in my file,
is his testimony to me, fellow poet.