The Quest

None keeps its inventory But it creeps into a story A story of a modern society Which is plural in nature; Partly of a rural nurture Partly of an urban stature Yet must remain together Lest it falls a part For unity is strength. For peace. To join these pieces to each other That requires acuteness of thought, That demands leaders of acuity, Who are too acquiescent to it, And well acquainted with it. As it demands political acumen That defines the acme of democracy. Not autocracy, Detests acidulous rulers, Who develop quirks To become acquisitive personalities. Egocentric. Raising their hands to quell the feelings Ever in a querulous tone of voice Ending up in quibbles Both with the minorities, And the majorities, And sparing not the authorities. To suck up to them. To come up with funny quips As quislings. That all and sundry Are left in a quandary; Since to them Neither a banana Nor an orange Or any other fruit Can quench its thirst Without a qualm about their stand. And virtually nothing comes on a silver platter; Always there is a price to pay later. And not their dreams to shatter Even though they dwell in the gutter. But indeed a quid pro quo of a kind That needs a lot of qusto to wind And seems as distant as a pulsar Whose drive you can’t quash Whose desire you must succum Whose desire is succint To its acolytes. Acquitted splendidly in its path Without acrimony, Without mean acrobatics. Sociocentric. Both full of sympathy, And empathy, And the acceptance, And the appreciation Of the uniqueness, Of the diversity, Of the peoples and cultures, Nurtured by nature For this is the real conquest of the quest.