Sorrow Seasoned... Poem by PARTHA SARATHI PAUL

The poor heart is broken;
The quake was hard- -
It`s broken into pieces;
One artist`s fingers are playing on them
And they are being asked what`s their name.
The quake was hard- -
It upset the things the way it loved.

They know not their names;
They were never christened.
They are catastrophe-born- -
No holy church will ever baptize them.
But things need names- -
Even tiny particles!

They are very daring
As shattered things never fear a shock!
The artist is a wizard and unusually caring.
He sets them in order and comes up a tough rock.
Ah! Lot better than before; not fragile any more
Like the poor heart that crashed in a tremor.

The quake was hard- -
It upset the things the way it loved.