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(26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)

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Mans tongue.

All of us speak our Mothers tounge.
A question has bugged me,
Like a determined bed bug.
What about the Fathers Tounge?
Every father had a mother dumbo,
He speaketh his mothers tounge.
Then what about a man's tounge?
It exists for sure,
But it speaks a strange lore.
Silent, like the flowers in bloom,
Proud like the wind cold and pruned,
It forces it self through his eyes,
You need to be a godess to hear it right,
And allow it to drip through your eyes.

Submitted: Saturday, March 09, 2013


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Comments about this poem (A Poet's Prize by Hardik Vaidya )

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  • Gajanan Mishra (3/9/2013 11:21:00 PM)

    good thought. thanks. I like it.

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