When tears are in your eyes,

It’s time to look inside,

Your heart will find another way”


Are poems not the pallbearers of a poet’s dead dreams & hopes?

I am awed by the way they donate their shoulders to bear the pain

Of many a tired poet- some who watched in helplessness as every

Piece of their broken hearts, floated away on their tears.

Has poetry not become a poet’s way to invest pain?

To put hurts in a fixed deposit account & watch it swell

with interest, ‘cos pain is a seed which hardly fails germination tests

in the laboratory of solitude where tears are reagents

Each time a poet sits in the company of his pen and paper,

Does he not hope his next poem will empty the oases in his eyes?

so that when those demons arrive at night with their dry throats,

They will have nothing to drink & he will gleefully, watch them die of thirst.

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