Nothing grows
Out of this dark – –
Even words
Pregnant
With meaning
Are still-born or blue – –
When the time comes
We rise to meet
From the mattresses
Of the mind
The agony of streets —
Only the rising golden sun
Moves us
From the circle
Of our distress —
Punishing the dark
Glaring
Through the clouds.
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A small poem of disquiet.
Thank you,Louis.
your poetry is always endowed with freshness dear Vijay. Its rich inventiveness provides a liberating image of the indomitable spirit and versatility of the poet.
Wow ! Thank you so much,dear Pramila.