Cascades Of Imgination Poem by Showkat Ahmad Wani

What ails thee? Poet! My dear When catch the sight
Of orchard garden, notice pale and sick
Thy dearest rose and petals hurt and ruined
Before of sinking into the grave and see
The nightingale, he croons the burial song
And breeze, that sprays the melancholic tears
And twigs, that sprout the fruits of despair deep
And honeybee, that drinks the flames of pain,
The hoary bumble-bee, that manages whole
Of burial preparations, dew, that now
Is not in wish for firstly beam of sun
But previously been vaporised by smacks
Of cheerful sorrow; scent has turned black
And sickly stench, the fruits are corpse and stink
That smells which propagates death for all,
And sparrows still recite the holy verse,
The lawn is shrouded as the snowy moon.
These moods with regrets transient have their worth
In creative eye to shake the creative mind,
My poet! May see my eye of reality deep,
And set to fall the tears of holy drop
And take thy steps to gloomy house to stare,
To forget made-up pain of creative yard,
Let see the face of mother, read the folds
For roads of curfew calm, she strays, she hunts
And hunts for son, for body parts, the strong
And steady legs, the solid arms, the eagle eyes,
The mind of wits, the boldest heart of lion,
The purest thoughtful mind and lips of pray.
She hunts and cries beneath the bunker shade,
My dear! Now catch her wings of darkest thoughts
And search the gloomy nights among her taut
And bushy hair that play the bars to form,
To size the oceans, size her drenched eyes,
To see her love, thee need to tear her heart,
To get the tide of hatred, guilt her foes,
Now! Read her like the page of holy script,
Where each her word has tale and more of worth
Than Chaucer, epic all above than great
Of Homer, arty more than Grecian urn,
Her mind shares sense among the sane
And heart, the room of mysticism, that drinks,
The faithful flames from faithless sea of beast,
The every poet but takes a single drop
Of inner eye from shoreless sea and all
The Miltons get the sight of eyes belong
To mother; every wisdom streams from feel,
The every darkest cry that catches souls
As ghost has race from streets of fear to shake
The nights of peace, to bruise the innocence,
Has spout from mother's fearful eyes to kill
The morn, to kill the day, to kill the noon,
To kill the every rage of time in fear,
The coyly peace of bride, the pause of tongue
In crackdown, show her minor parts of peace,
The hatred falls from devil's fall to last
Does firm in shade of biggest tree of lap,
And tugs of bond among true or false, of bond
Among the mystical and bodily,
Or weak and sturdy, friends and foes and all
These bonds but just the beam of passion deep
From mother star of love; my poet! Thee need
Not read the corners; need not drink the cloud
Of imaginations from fathoms of wind,
No need to dive to seek in eyes, or scratch
The minds of wit or sail the ship of search
Among the waves of heart to grab thy feel,
To bend thy pen at page, to be thee poet
To read her face is meant to read the world.