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.
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