When I think of grandeur, I don't take to
glorious aubades or visions of ecstasy,
I don't marvel at tempestuous winds
or the soft glint of gold brushing the glade
with an impressionist's stroke,
I don't admire the distance between the stars
or bathe in the lambent moonlight,
these things are and always will be
just like the thrush with its chiselled back
and tender song,
the cascading Wisteria like a purple waterfall,
but some things meet few - few soldiers
from the battlefield of affliction,
few browbeaten souls sitting on the ledge and
pondering the abyss,
and when they do, ash becomes snow,
the wounded ukelele a polished lyre,
requiems songs of praise;
true beauty is redemption,
the birth of a conquering will,
the home that greets you after the long road to recovery.

© Nitin Lalit Murali

For dVerse