Living The Paradox. Poem by Poireinganba Ningombam

If Shakespeare's hand had writ the world entire,
Then spectres should arise from every shade;
If Keats had kindled every mortal fire,
Then Love in every rose would ne'er have fade.

And were it Donne who fashioned mortal breath,
Each heart should beat with metaphysic art;
Yet none is wholly wrong, nor right in death—
Each plays his part upon life's fleeting chart.

We are but players, donn'd in borrowed guise,
Who strut beneath the firmament awhile;
Yet I shall seek no more thy manner, wise,
Nor bid thee tread the pathways of my mile.

Who art thou, if thou canst not weave a tale?
Yet some need not; and life shall still prevail.