Poets Are Lunatic. Poem by Mahfooz Ali

How well the hand knows what it wants!

Even as I write, my body feels the words,

thought passing through a pen.



Forget monks, forget the monasteries of the mind.



When words flow too fast these live as drunkards,

and cannot see.

But the body always looks through a clear glass.

I write, and grow bold as sealing up cask.

Poems are heavy barrels the body craves,

words sure poison,

and also strange communion.



They are spilled before the body can say...........