In the light of mirth or morose He stays ablaze and winces Nothing in the world soothes his self And more he sinks in distress A ruthless eye had found him Upon him is his gaze Beelzebub is the bearer's name And his soul is his claim When he found a place in this world He thought the slavery had come to an end But knew not he of being free And the road he walked never saw a bent. © 2016 VIREN