She is my beloved,
Whom I love indeed.
The sacred ideals have been buried,
That I wish men dig hurried.
she has drowned her texts,
in evil-free oceans.
The scholar bathes in stream of texts,
That flow through education.
He kisses the aesthetic ideals,
That came from the great mind.
She knows no death,
And no wars could steal her wrath.
The art sows saplings of humanity,
That bloom in heart of men without vanity.
And I smile with similes and play with personification,
I dine with diction and cry with characterization.
I melt with motif,
And I nurture my soul with narrative.
I have sucked the pill of madness ,
On literature in kindness.
And it is the bad subject of my relations,
Upon whose tongue it lays waste.
For it, I apologize you my dear,
Now let those sicked ears hear.
The lines of your art are the…
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WILDsound Festival 