Crushed by the Sole/soul

Wriggled he, the padrone of designs,

Puerile not ever, matching the exquisite carpentry,

He twirled and wheeled to crystallise his rhythms

The map of his globe on its way to blossom.

Hours he devoted, days he consigned;

In triggering the modes of his eternal web.

He gyred and slithered to carve it to round

Until his merits in majestic blueprint.

Rejoiced he with his wrangling triumph

The master of home, a hub of his own

Unwitting though a black boot of sole

Crushed it to core as HE walked along.

A. Krishna Sunder