GANDU LOG, KUCH POST KARO!!!
THE GUITARMAN
Countless voices beseeched their lords,
as fire and drought ravaged their homes.
Seeing their plight, the chosen-one spoke:
"Fear not; the keys will soon transpose."
He led them to a bright dawn of hope,
as the Guitarman struck a mellow chord...
As His axe churned out a brand new sound,
the 'music of the spheres' was first heard,
and so was compacted into 'The Word'.
That's how they say He generated the worlds,
and how within them, life first stirred.
The wheel was set spinning on a new round.
His eternal song spawns sentience-like features,
in countless seeds planted by His gardeners.
After timeless repose, these 'beings' will stir,
begin to perceive and then - Lo! Behold! Wonders!
They think themselves masters of their universe,
which is but a strand in His endless vesture.
Then the greatest gig in the sky broke open
the mighty roar of feedback crescendoes,
to a pitch audible to sentient folk:
it was light to the eyes and smell to the nose,
taste to the tongue and touch to the toes.
They gaped at the overture of His grand concerto...
All things are His gear as also His yoke:
Marshall, Stratocaster, Zildjians,
are working ceaselessly in His hands.
One-man-band is how He loves to jam.
He loves them evermore with fiery leads
and deathmetal howls from his throat.
The Guitarist was playing before there was 'when',
striving to achieve His song's completion,
which cannot be before Time's own extinction.
Chunkier bass in the quest for perfection:
faster solos and heavier distortion,
and more and more amps must be packed in!
His fingers worked higher up on the fretboard,
and the era blossomed and then stagnated:
morals and wisdoms were faddishly hated,
truth and ascension were being cremated,
in the jealous arson of the potentates.
That age's requiem He quickly composed.
Alone in a dark corner of his cell,
sits an outcast hermit in a trance.
Of his bliss, there is no other instance.
Far from the clamorous urban lands,
precious tears are falling an endless distance,
seeking the secret of the bottomless well.
On his face creases a complacent smile,
as wasted limbs twitch one final time.
To him the 'Void of Truth' was not denied:
he has just heard the six strings in his mind.
Purged of mortal dross, none else shall find
the Guitarman's melody, till eons are whiled.
Nescient that the Soul is His very substance,
humankind produces its own termination.
The reaper sits awaiting his own liberation
as a staccato burst of discordant syncopation,
ends in flames all His dear Maya's creation.
The wheel is reset for a fresh disturbance.
-- nonbeing
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