Mitra Samal
My poem is dying, a scared death
in the lobes of my brain, perturbed
by noises of the rapid civilisation
My poem is a thought entwined
with many more thoughts, unable
to breathe out the right patterns of
my imagination
My poem is lurking in faraway
lands and I am caught in the
mayhem of life, waiting for
an expedition to begin
My poem is facing reality that
obstructs its vent to escape
the divine realm and materialise
My poem is dying, a sad death
even before it’s conceived, it’s
the battle of duty and dreams
The fine line between obligations
and aspirations
Do not let our poems die because
then we will too, so will the ray of
hope with every sunrise,
so will the curve of the smile,
so will the honest voices and
the righteousness of life
Do not let them all die,
let them all live with poetry
