Blind Blot Poem by Praveen Kumar In Shobha Priya

When I brood how my road is riddled
With blocks, rocks and illegal barriers
From the day one, every day, all along the way,
And tore my talents and bore insults all days
For no worthwhile reasons, but spite and jealous,
For the fear of the Sun fading million little stars,
I, but, pity the perpetrators, for their foolish play,
For, all their struggles on a field of wet clay
Mire their limbs and waste their strengths;
I negotiate riddles and pass, though delayed.


Yet, I brood, alas, my road is riddled
With blocks, rocks and illegal barriers
And the summation of summer, wasted over it
And rendered my armour torn, soil'd and breached;
I bled days and nights, though it cleansed my soul,
Making me dearer to the Maker of all;
Yet, I brood, alas, my road is riddled,
For, it tarnished my light in material eyes, less tall
Made than most little dwarfs dancing around,
Who shoot high above as firecrackers.

Nay, it ever diminishes me in my eyes,
For,1 know my talents as my Maker does;
Yet, the Maker and me are not all that life counts;
Depth and breadth don't bring the necessary height,
And belated height won't make up the lost days;
What I bled shall remain a blotch on my soul
And remain a blot on my life as a whole;
This, perchance, what the Maker made me for, a lamp
With a knot of blind blot in the flame's heart
And I must carry on with what the Maker ordained me for.