An eon slips away
in an excruciating
silence of surrender
to itchy numbness,
mind missing sparkles
hibernates, waiting for
a new dawn of hope.
Lack of inspiration
resulting a huge short-fall
matters little, but if my works
fall short of expectations,
it matters more under the sun,
so I stopped exuding exultations.
Quality and quantity always contradict.
I hold the fire of flair
till hope and urge emerge,
entice intuitions to flare up –
fingers dance on letters
while mind starts juggling
with words of thoughts.
A brainstorm resumes.
Reasons with pros and cons
would open up in true tone
as it would unfurl gradually.
I get pleasure to open them out -
some formless free short-liners,
my poems of accumulated thoughts
to see how they do stand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem