An idea came to my mind,
I went inside to find
A paper and a pen
And sat down in my den.
The pen moved on
I don’t know when my maids were gone.
After I had poured out my heart,
I looked at the paper with a start.
It was tear stained
Outside it had started to rain.
Some unseen power had guided my hand.
I had just begun with a thin strand.
I walked around perplexed,
I hadn’t known this is how I felt.
How foolish to think I had written it.
God, you only know how I feel in the pit
of my belly. The sense of me, I am the doer,
evaporated, as I read the poem over and over
again. I am not as articulate and lucid.
I can’t string the words in such a fluid
way. Thank God, for helping me know how I feel,
And showing me a way to deal
with pain, sorrow and grief.
I don’t have to worry as long as I believe
I am you, you are me.
Though the naked eye can not see.
It is such a beautiful expression a sincere one…what miracles these pen do and …and behind all this writing God smiles…when writing one really escapes in another world…smooth flow and lovely to read….
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It is an absolute truth that The Divine Hand runs us through all these miles in poetry. This has been the experience of several poets of yesteryear, who believed deeply in His manifestations. This poem has great depth, devotion and a kind of perplexity at His acts. Very absorbing poem.