The Probability Poem by Subrata Ray

The Probability Of The Reality.

No tomorrow there unfolds,
No yesterdays could ever be,
The soul takes its pilgrimage,
In the timeless waves of the sea.

Perhaps for Her love and play,
She infuses life in the apparent clays,
And endows divine beauty of her own.
When clouds of mind are gone,
In the dome of abstract lake, she is shown.

It was destined for all, to have the call,
To clear the garbage of parasites,
To efface the dark, and restore the Light.

It is so, go and go,
Hold the scythe and mow.
Set fire every where,
On the rooms of seven deadly sins,
On the haphazard wizard,
In your,gay-Ego's labyrinths.