Looks like a piece of paradise that is waiting for a fairy,
Is it a place where lovers hide their lovely moments?
Are the images searching their roots kissing crawling water?
Whatever it may be, it's outcome of lovely sentiments.
Where is his mermaid? Is she here in the depths unseen?
Let him dive to his past and recollect where he has been.
Where he is he doesn't know he is enchanted in a magic past
Sometimes he dreams wasn't he a player of a bamboo flute
Where his flute has gone and how a sword came in his hand
He sees a teen aged girl rising like a moon on the beats
How he came at the beach and how his feet touched the sand
How unstuck is this sand and how sticky was the wet clay,
On the bank of a river shadows of lovers, an embracing lay!
A player of soft waters has lost his games in the hard waters
But the poet he brought with him still moves with the tides,
Lying at the bed of sand, waves kissing feet, eyes on the skies,
A full moon like a projector is running his recorded slides.
He sees trillions of stars with twinkling eyes, watching the show
Jealous cloud sand rains, He's waiting for the sun and a rainbow.
A poet in love of beauty is crazy and insane he'll stay here
The night is slow; the earth is restless to kiss the sun rays.
He sees pink aurora pushing forward the lazy winter sun,
Killing cool breeze, don't know how hot inside is the clay of bays,
The player is dead but the poet will not be dead, he'll survive,
Still dreaming and expecting the play of the flute he will revive.
The player is dead but the poet will not be dead, he'll survive, Still dreaming and expecting the play of the flute he will revive. A wonderful poem, thanks for sharing.
The player is dead but the poet will not be dead, he'll survive, Still dreaming and expecting the play of the flute he will revive.......touching expression with nice theme. A beautiful poem so nicely delineated.
What a wonderful poem that captures the very essence of a Poet and the eternality of his works. Liked the two closure lines. Wonderfully written.
A replay of a musical instruments can can silent the roars of hate and one listening to the tunes of a flute may go back in the lovely moments of life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The player is dead but the poet will not be dead, he'll survive, Still dreaming and expecting the play of the flute he will revive. marvelous words from a WORLD CLASS POET JA of PAK