I. Transcendence’s Majesty
I am no cloud—
I’m the storm’s first breath,
a silver howl lit with golden fire.
Valleys kneel. Rivers chant my name
in hymns that crack the spine
of stone and sky.
II. Manifesto’s Rebellion
Wordsworth?
His daffodils lie like pressed coins—
quiet, polished, pale.
But mine?
Mine slice the wind like thunder-forged blades,
hip-hop demigods stomping rhythms
into the bones of silence.
III. Revolution’s Fire
Ten thousand sun-grenades erupt—
each petal a siren:
Burn with me.
The waves recoil.
The trees bear witness.
Even the soil wears scars
from where we danced.
IV. The Final Triumph
Let scholars mourn their fragile blooms.
I spit on inward eyes.
My daffodils don’t bloom—
they rise.
They march.
They conquer.
And when they win,
the world will wear their yellow
like war paint in spring.
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Author:
Mottakeenur Rehman (
Online) - Published: June 11th, 2025 04:13
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
Online)
Comments1
Turning an old image into something new is always wondrous, one of the finest ways to make poetry speak. I am moved by the power of your war paint metaphor... but don't underestimate old Wordsworth. His poetry was a revolution of soft power, a hue and cry that the world need not be stingy and bland and monopolized by getting and spending, all work and no play. Keep them coming! Your works are serious stuff, never trite or disappointing!
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