That To Me Is Poetry Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

Words that flow forth, fount to fore
From feeling heart's deepest core,
That purest stream is poetry.

That which sprouts— seed well worth
From bosom of fecund earth,
That tender sprout is poetry.

From quenchless mind what outpours,
Flies off far, on wings what soars,
That golden dream is poetry.

What in woody wild spring-like leaps,
From leas and leafy bushes peeps,
That sprightly deer is poetry.

What at the dusky eve of day,
In worshipful mode may pray,
That sacred scene is poetry.

In watchful steps who walks,
And in her unique words talks,
That fond toddler is poetry.

At dewy dawn so handsome,
The buds that blossom,
Its floral fragrance, Poetry!

When season's first rain has rained,
The earthy smell unrestrained,
Of all to me is poetry.

An August cloud aloud when thunders,
Awaiting at gate when she wonders,
That wonderment is poetry.

A hopeful heart when heaves,
No word from lips when leaves,
That silent tongue is poetry.
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Translation of a Gujarati poem titled Kavitaa, by Devanshu Patel
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Translations | 41.02.2019 |