What can poetry be but eloquent exquisite enticing flow of emotions outpour?
What can poetry be but delinquent desolate disconsolation of dejections chore?
What can poetry be but affluent abundant amalgamation of anxious ardour?
Can it be just a soft, sumptuous, soothing overflow?
Free from the shackles of ostentatious, rhyming rhetoric phrases.
Rising above the deep gorges of grammar and punctuations to free rein in the kingdom of its own amongst the dictator’s literary and literal worlds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
poetry is a personal song of the soul...