A Poet's Job Poem by Ajit Das

Let us face it squarely: what exactly
is the job of a poet?
Perhaps this much is conceded: to relay life.

But what sort of life to be transmitted:
existing, drudging within confines
or dreaming, soaring on the wings of hope?

Then, what about the precipice of reality
that juts out now and then,
blurring the view of the distant summit?

And, how do small phrases of words:
culled, compressed, fit in with a time
that flutters, moves faster every day?

Curved to be felt by heart, they ask you
to slow down, listen to their mute voice,
not allow it to whiz past unnoticed.

They separate every moment of existence,
play it on the orchestra of life
and tune it to immensity.