Pearl’s Meadow

A muse permeating, imbuing, tingeing, sounding,
Yet secretly piercing, soaking, staining, bawling out
In a clime so green and brown, some grey and red,
Most striking black and blue ubiquitous.
A bee, a nice-looking bird, both teasing, one knowing.
Some greet the muse, though call her by a misnomer,
But neither does bother. I reclusively know the name:
It is an eponym, a regal title only respected by me,
(Any ignoramus’d at best discern it as a nom de plume)
And in the Masters’ language I have pledged to worship it
Till the colors did us part – and beyond.

Published on



  1. […] eventually I wouldn’t have missed the old home that crumbled under scorching moonlight with a pearl slowly trundling down meadows in a small city somewhere far down […]

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *