A Poem From Spring Poem by Harsh Bhardwaj

When ideas cease to occur
And words lay dead
On dusty pages,
Strangled by their own meaning,
I go towards west
Where the jungle begins
In search for those lost languages
The nature once spoke in;
Of freedom
And asymmetry!

You find a jungle
Only when
you are lost in it.
And once
I met a woman there
Who was picking twigs
Which were,
Spread all around
And
A bit damp.

Her veins,
Running through the arms
Which went
All the way to her chest
And were lost
Only beneath
The shades of her breast,
Spoke a language
In which
Poetry was merely
A song of hardships
With no rhythm.

The scars on her shoulder,
Which bore the hatred
Of local policeman
And their lathis,
Proclaimed
That civilization was dead
Years ago
With that first man
Who was made
To kill himself!

And yet,
With a smile she said
When she saw me
"Look! It's spring already."
Her dialect,
I noticed,
Was one
Which was declared extinct, long ago
By linguists!
I looked around:
The trees,
In their new leaves,
Were humming
The song of spring

I turned to her,
She was collecting twigs.

I smiled
And came back
To where
I am sitting right now!