Comment, be fast,
Nimble fingers. Numb mind
You could be dead,
To be alive is no precondition.
It need not make sense
When did Poetry ever make any of it?
Literature is a fad that rants on
Why don't you too shake a leg
A comma will do.
If nothing else a few question marks
Strewn over the bland white background
Reminding us of the cherries
On fresh cream.
It is the volume that matters
Not the content
The count is important
That you do not have sense
Is a truth forgotten.
Years back
In class X exams
I wrote sheets and used up reams of paper
To get 25 marks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Poem touches to heart.